


Born Under Punches

by botanicapoetica, EMILYLAWLESS



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Bottom Billy Hargrove, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Experiment Billy, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Jane and Billy are siblings, M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Possessed Billy, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, The Upside Down, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-10-01 15:10:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17246441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/botanicapoetica/pseuds/botanicapoetica, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EMILYLAWLESS/pseuds/EMILYLAWLESS
Summary: He does wonder how long Steve’s been here, how long he’s been watching, what he’s doing here in the first place. By the looks of it he’s on his own, didn’t bring Robin up here to make out or get high.This doesn’t feel like the sort of place Harrington belongs late at night by himself. He’s not like Billy, he’s got friends and people that give a shit about him, shouldn’t have to drive up here and sit in his car alone on a Friday night like Billy does.But still, there he is.





	1. Chapter 1

Summer in Hawkins is almost as awful as Billy thought it would be. At least it’s warm, that’s probably the only saving grace, the only thing that keeps Billy from driving his car into the quarry and ending the misery for good. That and the reliability of Tina’s parties. It seems like they happen every other weekend now, absent parents and a big house creating the perfect storm. And predictably Billy’s right in the eye of it, getting held up on the keg by Tommy on his left and some meathead on his right. There’s beer flowing out of his mouth, foamy and metallic on his tongue, burning his throat as it goes down. People are shouting his name, or at least two syllables that sound similar. It echoes around in his head, makes him feel like he’s worth something for just a few minutes until he’s being put back on the ground.

Tommy’s smacking his back, shouting in his ear but it all sounds like a drone, an annoying buzz that won’t go away so there’s no point swatting at it. He can feel the beer trickling down his chest, leaving wet tracks over his skin. Then there’s fingertips too, nails scratching over his abs and lower until they’re teasing at the top of his jeans. It’s easy to let himself be pulled by his belt into the warmth of a girl who’s name he should remember. Even easier to slide his tongue into her mouth like he wants it, like he was just waiting for her to give it up.

More noise behind him, another slap on the back as his tongue drags against another. His hands creep up to her chest and start to squeeze. It probably doesn’t feel good but he doesn’t care, doesn’t care about anything except the fact that somebody wants him. She’s not the first person he’s made out with tonight and she won’t be the last. There’s something addictive about the warmth of another person, about being to close his eyes for a moment and pretend. Behind his eyelids he can see the sun reflecting on the water, can still remember the soft bounce of brown hair and the feeling of a hand tightly holding his own.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she whispers in his ear and he knows he should probably say no, probably shouldn’t lead her on because it’s going to end in disaster but he goes anyway.

On the bed he fakes it until he can’t. Moans like he knows he should, pushes his hand down her jeans like he knows she’s expecting. Then she’s pushing her hands into his pants and there’s no more faking to be done. The way she huffs is predictable, the way her face twists up as she asks _is_ _it_ _me_. He wants to say _no_ , _it’s_ _me_ , _I’m the one who’s fucking wrong_ but he doesn’t. Instead he just shoves her off him, says _fuck_ _off_ under his breath and makes his way back downstairs.

 

 

It’s no surprise that Tommy’s at the end of the stairs, steering him to the living room. Everyone’s doing body shots off some girl he knows he’s seen before and knows he can do it better. He does what he always does, elbows his way into it and shows them what it looks like. There’s nothing to win here but it’s never stopped him before. He’s better than everyone in this fucking place except he knows it’s only at all of the things that don’t matter. He was good once, he thinks, at the things that do.

Someone is laughing and it launches him back into San Diego, sand on golden skin that he remembers wiping off with his own hands. _There’ll just be more later, babe_ but he keeps swiping it anyway, doesn’t think about what other ways those words will matter. He’s thinking about it now though, sneaking out of windows and running to a car waiting for him in the driveway, seeing Neil’s face in the living room and not caring that he’d be caught for it. There was more later, a lot more.

It’s that girl Robin laughing, he can see it clearly once he slips out of his head. She’s laughing at Harrington and he looks calm, maybe happy. The bruises are long gone but if he tries hard enough he can still picture them, a watercolor smattering of black and green and yellow. He thinks that’s probably the only time Harrington’s ever had to nurse his precious face, that he learned for the first time that it just gets darker before it turns sickly, doesn’t fade the way you’d like it to. Any regret he might’ve had flies right out the window again, picturing all of these people going back to their beautiful homes and wanting for nothing.

Not Billy. He wants in a way that feels insatiable and it’s only dulled by whatever swill is in the kitchen, pilfered from parents’ liquor cabinets. One of Tina’s friends brought coke and he snorts it right off of the expensive glass table, gets another firm slap on the back for his efforts. He likes the way it makes him feel important for those too short minutes, the way his blood practically sings in his veins and makes him think he could crush everything around him into a manageable pile of fucking nothing at his feet. It’s probably the drugs but he can almost picture it, can almost see his hands vibrating with the power of it.

There’s a stupid sounding shriek at the sliding glass door, Tina wailing about people fucking her house up. When he cranes his neck he can see a handful of decorative vases broken into a million pieces, gold leaf disappearing into the carpet. It’s not very interesting after a second of watching Tina run around like a chicken with her head cut off so after rolling his eyes he stalks back to the living room. Body shots are over and the music is on, some yuppie anthem blaring through the pristine sound system stacked around them. He dances better than any of them too and that helps ease the all too frequent now feeling of tar starting to settle in his guts.

There’s more hands reaching for him now, big bright smiles and white teeth with lipstick smears. Everything is a little blurry, fuzzy around the edges now. He knows he looks fucked up, sweating and sniffing, grinding his teeth as he rubs up on some faceless body. Teeth nip at his neck, bringing him back to the moment just long enough to realise that a few people are staring at him, at the girl who’s busy making out with his neck. He can’t bring himself to smile, can’t bring himself to tell them to fuck off either, but he can just about manage to shove her off. He’s not exactly mean about it, whispers later in her ear like it’s some kind of promise. People are watching, he needs to wear his mask.

On the edge of the dance floor he stumbles, trips over a bottle that somebody just left there. He’s expecting to land head first on the floor, absently hopes nobody sees him make a fucking fool out of himself. But then there’s an arm on his and he’s still upright, held there by somebody else. His eyes take a moment to focus, too fucked up from the drugs and the booze. It takes all his strength to yank his arm away when he sees who’s got a hold of him. When he’s standing up of his own accord he tries not to linger on the feeling of fingers digging into the flesh of his arm—Steve’s fingers.

“Fuck off Harrington,” he spits, trying to keep his eyes fixed on Steve but there’s two of him and both of them keep spinning. “Surprised you even get invited to these things anymore.”

Steve rolls his eyes. It’s infuriating how that one small action makes Billy want to put his own head through the wall. There’s anger building in him, the kind that reminds him of Neil. Like father, like son. Neil would knock that smug smile right off of Steve’s face, would kick him to the floor and keep going until the sound of Susan’s voice made him stop. Part of him wonders if Steve would cry, beg him to stop and tell him that he’s _sorry_ , _I_ _won’t do it again dad, I promise_.

“Man, I think you’ve had one too many,” Harrington says, his voice level and easy like there’s nothing wrong. Probably never is, not for Harrington. “Seriously Hargrove, you don’t look so good.”

The concern is pithy and dismissive in the way Billy expects it from a fucking WASP like Harrington. It makes him curl his lip in a snarl, Harrington’s friends sharing similar looks of quiet disinterest and annoyance. He hates it, he wants looks of admiration and intimidation, not this soul sucking and high killing shit in front of him. Not this watered down version of annoyance.

His hand shoots out to fist into Steve’s shirt, yanking them closer together. Their noses are almost touching and he can smell saltwater but he cracks the memory down because it’s not the fucking time. This isn’t Kelly, it’s the fun house mirror version of him, the same kind eyes but with none of the heat, none of the interest.

“Could make us a matching set if you want,” Billy says through his teeth, something close to happy or at least satisfied rearing up when Robin and whoever the fuck she brought stand to attention. He doesn’t loosen his grip, just gives Steve a shake, smiling with a mouth full of shark teeth.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Steve says, voice still not intimidated, like Billy’s nothing to him but an annoyance. “Walk away.”

Whatever concern he did have seems to dissipate under Billy’s glare, a similar one staring back at him now. If it wasn’t for Steve’s friends he’d push a little harder, get Steve to bare his teeth for him. He tells himself that it’s because he wants to fight, not that he wants to feel Steve’s hands on him. He just wants to wipe that happy little smile off of his face, make him feel like Billy feels most of the time—nothing, just an aching void.

“Gladly,” Billy says, not missing the opportunity to give Steve a shove into the wall. There’s Robin glaring at him, a couple of guys he doesn’t recognise getting ready to throw in if they have to. But Billy doesn’t care, just flips them the bird and gets one last look at Steve. At his stupid fucking hair and his eyes that follow Billy out the door before turning back to his friends.

 

 

Outside it’s still warm and Billy’s thankful for that as he shrugs out of his leather jacket. There’s a slight breeze that cools the sweat on his chest and he fumbles around in his pocket for a cigarette. His Camaro is only a block away, enough time for him to smoke the entire thing and then he’s lighting another in the passenger seat. Driving drunk is irresponsible. Driving drunk is disrespectful. Driving drunk will get his teeth punched halfway down his throat by Neil so that’s why he drives to the quarry instead of home.

He remembers Tommy telling him about the Byers kid who got found at the bottom, that they’d thought he was dead. He had some kind of miraculous recovery, something that shouldn’t have been possible. No one talks about that part though, they glide right over it and into the kid’s new nickname instead. He wonders what it felt like to die, if the kid feels worse now that he’s alive, back in a world that still doesn’t give a shit about him.

When he goes to grab his runaway kit from the trunk it starts. He’s in the middle of pulling out a blanket and a pillow when it feels like lightning strikes right into his head. Could’ve just been shitty coke but it still knocks him on his ass and has him leaning against the Camaro for a few minutes. It’s like an avalanche of thoughts all falling on top of him at once; the jingling sound of his mother’s earrings, the low and reassuring moan of someone behind him, screaming and swinging in a living room lined with fucked up drawings. He shakes his head to try and get rid of them, shoving the bedding into the backseat and following suit. He falls asleep or passes out, blissfully knocked unconscious with no thoughts to keep him company.

 

 

The sky is black and purple like Harrington’s face was and everything around him is rotten, off somehow. The quarry is still deep and empty but there’s something at the bottom that he can’t see, the sound of things stirring and waking up. It starts quiet and gets louder until it sounds just like the music had in Tina’s living room only it’s off too, too slow and far away. There’s something above him but he can’t look, never does in this dream. He knows what’s there, what’s watching him. It’s unfathomably huge and colder than ice, the kind you know will kill you in just seconds.

There’s particles floating in the air, almost like something got burned but everything looks like it died a long time ago. He tries to say something but his voice comes out wrong too and there’s a noise from above him that tells him to keep quiet. His Camaro is just a shell, the leather withered and torn, the windows blown out completely. Squeezing his eyes shut doesn’t seem to do any good because it’s just the same fucked up scene when he opens them again. Pinching his arm doesn’t do anything at all.

There’s a crack that sounds like thunder above his head, something bright lighting up the sky but he won’t look. Fear keeps him in place, has him shaking in the backseat of what used to be his car. It’s a dream. It’s the fucking drugs. It’s just a fucking dream. But everything feels so real. Like a twisted version of reality, or maybe a reflection of how he feels on the inside—rotten, a fucking stain on everything he touches.

The sound of fireworks off in the distance knock him out of it, bring him back to the real world, the one where everything’s just waiting for him to fuck it up. He knows it’s just some kids in the woods, lighting shit on fire just for something to do, but he can’t shake the uneasy feeling, like there’s something watching him in the backseat of the Camaro. His rational brain knows that he’s alone, that nobody's going to come and fuck with him in the middle of nowhere. It doesn’t stop him from pulling the blanket over his head and sinking lower into the leather of the Camaro. It feels like hours before he’s able to sleep again, his arms curled around himself in a feeble attempt to make himself feel better. The fireworks stop after a while and then there’s nothing but the sound of crickets, of water running somewhere below, and the low grumble of thunderclouds forming over his head.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve doesn’t really get hangovers anymore. He didn’t get very many before, probably just the luck that comes with being young. Partying hasn’t been appetising since Halloween and his dad’s been on his ass about college applications so the idea of hosting them has lost its appeal under his not exactly watchful eye. His dad isn’t really looking, no one is.

His house is empty with no holidays looming that would require any perfunctory appearance from his parents but every single light is still on. He wonders how high the utilities must’ve shot up since fall, since he slipped into a tunnel filled with foreboding and rotting snow, since he set fire to creatures with no real faces. His parents haven’t said anything but he wasn’t expecting them to and it’s comforting in a way he guesses, knowing the lights will stay on no matter what, making it easy to tell he’s awake, that it’s spring now and the gate is closed.

Starcourt is honestly an eyesore, something totally garish and wrong in the face of how sleepy Hawkins has always seemed. His work uniform is another kind of eyesore but he can at least hide the hat in the passenger seat when he’s driving, slip a coat on so that people on the road are none the wiser. His luck runs out the second he enters the mall but it’s not as bad as he thought it would be when he started. Everyone who works there is commiserating with each other with just one look, everyone saying _yeah, you too huh_ in a way that makes it at least slightly less painful.

The worst thing about working at Scoops Ahoy is how open it is, just smack bang in the middle of the mall like some kind of beacon to every single shithead kid that hangs out there, including his own group of shithead kids. There’s the bright neon sign and the tinny pop music coming out of the speakers, familiar sounding. Nancy used to listen to all kinds of annoying music, constantly leaving tapes in his car— _Madonna, Debbie Gibson, Olivia Newton John_. It’s the same shit they play at the mall on a daily basis, never straying from the same old regurgitated billboard hits.

Robin’s at the counter looking concerned as she serves a family, the kid getting his grubby fingers all over the glass that covers the toppings. She’s staring at one of the booths, her eyes flitting over to him and going wide. When he gets closer he’s fairly certain his own eyes go even wider. Sat in a booth with an application form in front of him, Billy Hargrove doesn’t really look that intimidating at all. It’s been a while since Steve actually felt nervous by his presence, something about coming face to face with the unknown makes human monsters easier to stomach. Opposite him their manager Ron is talking animatedly about the benefits of working at Scoops Ahoy— _free ice cream, but go easy on the toppings_ . He’s fairly certain that Billy _knows_ he works here, and he’s either doing it to fuck with him or he’s really desperate for the cash.

“Can you believe that guy? Makes a big scene last night then shows up here and applies for a job,” Robin says when she’s done serving, straightening her sailors hat:

Steve can believe it. It’s easy to believe a lot of things when it comes to Billy. “Just ignore him. If he’s doing it to be an asshole then he’ll get fired,” Steve replies, tying his apron around his waist and painting on a big, fake smile for the next customer.

Around four customers later Billy’s finally sliding out of the booth, shaking Ron’s hand like their old friends and giving him a little wave. It shouldn’t make his blood boil but it does. It feels like getting knocked to the ground on the Byers’ driveway, like getting knocked to the ground in an alleyway with all his friends watching.

Billy looks different, a buttoned up white shirt in place of his usual leather jacket and bare chest. Steve can practically smell the hangover on him, can see it in the heavy bags under his eyes too. In typical Billy fashion, the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, letting the entirety of the Starcourt Mall get a glimpse at his perfect tan. Steve doesn’t wave back, doesn’t smile either, just focuses on cleaning the counter and lets the drone of the pop music flood his head, anything to distract him from Billy.

 

 

Turns out there’s absolutely no way of distracting himself because Billy’s back again a few days later, fully decked out in the uniform that he somehow manages to make look not so humiliating. The hat rests on his curls perfectly and the shorts somehow look obscenely short on him, attractive in a way that’s so predictable Steve finds it easy to stow the thought away. The only thing that doesn’t seem natural about it is the shiner Billy’s sporting on his left eye, not bad enough to keep his eye shut but it’s a near thing. He wars with himself for a while and paints a smile on his face for the customers but then a lull hits and he can’t really help himself.

“What happened to your face, man?” Steve asks, cracking a roll of quarters over the counter, wondering if the sound of change cascading into the till is the reason for the lack of response.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” is all Billy says, a saccharine smile on his face, the same one he’s been wearing the whole shift. There’s an edge to it though, one that makes him think of that special on Ted Bundy that Robin made him watch this weekend. It’s false in a way that’s sort of unsettling but he guesses that’s just how Billy always looks, something mean under the surface.

The response is irritating and anticlimactic so maybe that’s why he does what he does. Maybe it’s his parents and all their _good manners_ coming through, filled with barbs and underhanded intentions. Maybe he just wants to rattle Billy until that smile falls off, until he can finally look at something that isn’t bullshit. Pretending didn’t work out so well for him last year so maybe this will.

“Somebody finally put you in your place, Hargrove?” Steve asks, all casual and curious, his eyes still fixed on the till like he’s asking about the weather. The second he says it he knows it’s wrong, sees everything shift when the words leave his mouth and thinks _finally_.

Billy gets up close to him, his breath hot against Steve’s ear. He knows that if they weren’t at work Billy would probably have him up against the wall, might even kick him to the ground. This feels familiar, something he knows how to deal with. Billy’s practically snarling at him, his teeth baring like he’s about to rip a chunk out of Steve.

“Keep your fucking nose out of my business,” Billy says, voice low and dangerous. He doesn’t have to threaten Steve, it’s all unspoken.

Steve knows he should just shut up and try to get on with the day, ignoring Billy anyway he can, but he’s never been the sort of person that doesn’t bite at the first hint of bait.

“You’re the one shoving _yours_ in mine. You get a job here just to fuck with me?” Steve matches Billy’s snarl, feels his heartbeat start to pick up the way it always does when he feels under threat. Billy might not be a demogorgon but he’s still unpredictable.

“Drop it, _Harrington,_ ” Billy says, spitting out his name like it’s something rotten. And Steve should, he knows he should. But he doesn’t. He thinks about Nancy calling him an idiot, about his own parents calling him one too. And maybe he is because he keeps pushing, can’t seem to stop

“Or you just _had_ to find a way to be near me, is that it? You missed me?”

Something seems to make Billy stop short of a response and Steve stomach drops as Billy’s face just—shifts. The look Billy gives him is surprising and it’s not just because it’s there instead of a blow to the head. It’s _knowing_ in a way he can’t place or doesn’t want to place. Any longer and he knows it’s going to make his guts twist, make him crawl out of his skin but it’s gone as quick as it came, replaced by a customer service smile.

“Can’t stay away, Harrington, you’re just _too_ dreamy,” Billy says, setting his cheek in his palm and cackling, the sound carrying even as Robin comes back from her break and waves Billy off to his own. “See you lovebirds in thirty.”

“God he’s unbearable,” Robin moans as soon as he’s out of earshot. “I can’t believe he got a job here. Like, out of all the places in Hawkins and he chose _here_.”

Steve just nods, tries to focus on getting the counter squeaky clean instead of that strange feeling that rises every time he thinks about the look on Billy’s face. The counter is sticky with years of being cleaned halfheartedly but not today, not on his watch.

 

 

The rest of the day is awful. The kind of awful that makes Steve drive to the quarry with a bag of weed he brought off some burnout in the mall parking lot. Billy doesn’t do anything else, doesn’t say anything else but he doesn’t have to. Just having him there is enough to rile Steve up, set him on edge. So he ends up sat in his car with all the windows up, toking on his badly rolled joint.

The air is thick with the smell of pot, the smoke from the tobacco he’s rolled it with, a little of his own sweat too because it’s hot as hell with all the windows up in summer. The buzz is worth it. That nice floaty feeling he has, like nothing really matters and everything is inevitable anyway. There’s no stopping the universe. No stopping the upside down if it chooses to come back. Steve finds a strange comfort in his own lazy brand of nihilism.

He’s got a tape on so loud he doesn’t hear the rumble of Billy’s engine until he sees the headlights up ahead. It’s just his luck, probably what he deserves for being such a miserable shit. But then Billy’s turning away, backing out of the quarry like he’s changed his mind at the sight of Steve’s car. Must be Steve’s lucky day, only having to put up with Billy for eight hours. He tries not to linger on why Billy would be coming out here by himself—or maybe he wasn’t by himself at all. Billy hooking up with someone in his car is hardly a revelation but it makes Steve feel a little out of sorts. Probably just the weed though, at least that’s what he tells himself as he settles back into the warm seat.

The next handful of days make even less sense and he’s dead sober for them. Hargrove works an overlapping shift with him every day but he’s not his usual _personable_ self, though he guesses the customers can’t tell the difference. The grin is the same even when it’s framed with a split lip and they don’t see what happens when they turn their backs. It’s like all the lights get shut off behind Billy’s eyes, like someone’s yanked the plug right out of the socket. He doesn’t even make the effort to shoulder check Steve, shout random numbers when he’s counting the till just to make him lose count, nothing he’d usually do. There’s nobody home and what’s left behind is bizarre, some threat of hostility just under the surface that feels familiar but that he can’t place.

Friday rolls in and Billy looks sickly green for his entire shift like he’s hungover or something. Every time he has to do so much as brush by Steve he looks sicker. It’s not like Steve’s expecting anything from him since he hasn’t said two words to him all week but it makes him feel a little put out. Being ignored is a sore spot, something that’s gotten better with time but still, being unable to get anything out of a walking time bomb personified leaves his pride—he doesn’t know, sore maybe.

“Have a good weekend, honey,” Robin says with a saccharine smile on her face at the end of the day, the _fuck you_ silent but very clear.

To Steve’s surprise Billy doesn’t just register it, he looks over his shoulder and smiles. The action clearly splits his lip again and can’t feel good but the only thing that happens next is Billy flipping her off over his shoulder and kicking the door open. It makes a screw pop loose and Steve’s hardly able to raise his eyebrows before the asshole’s disappeared.

“You like fucking with rabid animals?” Steve asks Robin as they walk each other out to the parking lot, balling his hat up and throwing it into the backseat even if he knows he’ll be dutifully smoothing it out in three days. “Not your smartest move.”

“Oh please, can you imagine Mr. Catholic Guilt ever doing anything to a chick?” Robin says easily, shaking her head at the cigarette he offers. Doesn’t mean she’s done with him though, apparently. “Would hurt his pussy chasing rep too much. Anyway, see you at nine? It’s not actually a question.”

Steve opens his mouth to protest but she’s already climbing into her Lancia, blasting UB40 like it’s not something to be mortified about. Her attempts to socialise him are well meaning but unwanted. Problem is she’s one of the only people he actually likes to be around anymore, so parties at Tina’s have become a prerequisite to getting high and talking about shit that’s real. She owes him for ditching last time anyway.

 

 

Tonight Tina is taking a break from hosting a party, apparently something to do with her parents expensive crystal champagne glasses getting smashed at the last one. It’s all fun and games until something gets broken. Then there’s only a few other people willing to offer up their houses as the designated party spot. Steve used to be one of those people, used to be a lot of things before.

It’s a little unnerving to be back in Tommy’s house, sat up on his kitchen counter sipping some awful concoction out of a red cup. Everything is familiar and foreign at the same time—people everywhere, Tommy making out with Carol on the couch in the living room, Billy with a chemical induced smile stretched across his entire face. Steve wonders if he’ll ever escape from the monotony or whether he’s destined to relive what feels like the same night over and over again. Show up, get drunk, try to avoid Billy, talk shit with Robin, get somebody sober to drive him home.

It’s impossible to avoid Billy because he’s always the centre of attention at these parties. Always the loudest too, the one who wants all eyes on him. Steve thinks it’s almost funny that in the daytime Billy acts like he’d rather nobody see him at all. There’s a stark difference between the Billy he had seen a few hours ago and the one that just walked into the kitchen. The bruises are still there, nasty reminders of some brawl no doubt, purple fading into blue on his skin.

“You missed me honey?” he asks, leaning back on the island opposite them. The question is clearly aimed at Robin but Billy won’t take his eyes off of Steve, grinning maniacally as he folds his arms over his chest. “I forgot—you two are too cool to let loose like everyone else. Gotta lurk in the kitchen, act like you’re better than all of us.”

“I forgot—you’re fucking _obsessed_ with us,” Robin says, sliding off the counter to stand. “What is it Billy, desperate to be friends but you just don’t know how to ask?”

“Not into third wheeling, sweetheart,” Billy says smoothly, or it would be without the dilated eyes, that hostile undercurrent that comes into the room. “Hear Harrington is though, kinda his modus operandi huh Steve?”

Before Steve realizes it he’s off of the counter and nose to nose with Billy, fingers flexing at his sides. It’s not the jab that gets him really. The heartbreak shit is old especially with the unoriginal attempts Tommy’s made to goad him about it the last six months. It’s just time, he thinks. Walking around like a dog with its tail between its legs isn’t doing him much good and the handful of beers he’s had make it easy to clock Billy right where his newest bruise is just beginning to fade. 

It doesn’t quite get the answer he’d anticipated. Billy looks _excited_ before a fucking wallop of a haymaker catches him in the jaw, Billy’s high laughter making his lips pull into a sneer. Hargrove is fucked up which means he’s probably malleable, an observation he proves right when his next punch lays him out on the tile of Tommy’s kitchen. People are staring now but no one is cheering because Billy’s still laughing, maybe even harder.

“Jesus, fucking look at you man,” Steve says, looking down at him like he thinks his father would, disapproving, bored even. “Go home, Hargrove.”

Billy doesn’t move but Robin does, her hand curling around Steve’s arm and tugging him out of the kitchen. She seems disapproving but he thinks it’s probably just boring to watch guys fight at parties, can almost picture her whenever she says _entirely uninteresting to me_. She doesn’t mention the fight for the rest of the night there and they don’t get hassled again, Billy disappearing somewhere, his laughter like high pitched, fucked up little bells in the distance.

“Think you made his night back there, Steve,” Robin says as she ushers him into her car, turning the radio down so that the car is blissfully devoid of whatever monstrosity is probably in her tape player. “Never met your dad but from what you’ve told me I think you took a page out of his book, man.”

Steve stews on it and doesn’t respond, frowning out the window as they cruise right past Loch Nora and out to the quarry. The problem with having an actual friend is that they remember shit about you, whatever personal blips of information you’ve shared stay with them. It’s not a feeling he’s had in a long fucking time, not since the days when he was in grade school, asking Tommy why his parents didn’t sleep in the same bed while they were laid out on his trampoline.

“Somebody needs to put him in his place,” he says absently, head resting on the glass. His knuckles sting and there’s a satisfying ache in his muscles, the kind that comes with landing a heavy blow. “Dickhead walks around like he owns the town. Guess I just got a little tired of his bullshit.”

He looks over at Robin who puts the car into park and reaches over to the glove compartment. Inside there’s a little tin with Gizmo on the front. Steve thinks it’s a lot nicer than the wrinkled _Have A Nice Day_ bag from Bradley’s Big Buy that he uses. There’s a funny look on her face, eyebrows raised as she busies herself rolling a joint. Part of him wants to press, ask her why she looks like she’s about to call him out on something. Instead he decides to dig about in her glove compartment, looking for something halfway decent to listen to.

“I really need to lend you some tapes,” he says, rolling his eyes at Pat Benatar. He settles on The Pretenders, jams it into the tape deck and tries to relax into the seat. “I don’t know why he riles me up so much. It’s like he knows exactly what buttons to press, how to get me to react to him. Fucker won’t leave me alone, it’s like he’s everywhere.”

Robin’s eyes bore into him. He’s not making eye contact but he feels them like they’re looking right through him, seeing something he didn’t even know existed. “You sure you want him to leave you alone?” she asks, passing him the joint.

The end is already sticky with her lip gloss, a little sweet too as he pulls on it. Then there’s warmth spreading through his chest, the earthy taste in his mouth hitting the back of his throat. “Fucks that supposed to mean?” he counters, keeping the joint pinched between his thumb and index finger.

“Don’t know. Just—you talk about him a lot. Always seem to be looking out for him at parties y’know? Just like, _waiting_ for him to show up.” She’s still staring at him, digging around, searching for something. “Don’t hog it _Harrington_.”

Steve passes the joint without complaint. An uneasiness settles over him. A silence too because he really doesn’t have an answer for that. It’s not like he wants Billy to fuck with him, not like he encourages it either. Thinks it’s probably just him being on edge all of the time, cautious, waiting for Billy Hargrove to ruin his day. It sure feels like he’s been called out, even though none of it feels true.

“Can we spend maybe,” he looks at his watch and sighs, “an hour not talking about him? I’m serious, I don’t even want to hear his goddamn name for an hour.”

Robin nods, passing the joint back over to him. It works pretty well for the most part, neither of them mentioning his name. Robin talks a lot, mostly about some new guy called Blake who showed up in her World History class. It’s nice listening to Robin talk so animatedly about someone, reminds him of when he first met Nancy, how he’d talk Tommy’s ear off about her. He doesn’t think about Billy much at all except for the fleeting thought that now he’s the one responsible for putting bruises on his face.

 

 

They’re on their second joint when Steve sees headlights cutting through the trees. The quarry is a popular hang-out spot but that doesn’t stop the fear of getting caught by the police. He still talks to Hopper occasionally but that doesn’t mean he’d get away with possession of drugs. When the car becomes more clear the fear of getting caught fades away, replaced with the fear of being seen. For all their good intentions, Billy Hargrove always seems to find a way to force himself into their orbit.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me? This has to be a joke,” Robin says, sitting forward a little in her seat. “He was fucked up and you knocked him on the ground. How can he even drive right now?”

The irony that she’s two joints deep and sat in the driver’s seat seems to miss her. Steve ignores her, tries to make himself smaller. The last thing he needs right now is Billy’s eyes digging around in him too. Both of them watch as Billy parks a distance away, almost too far away to make out. But Steve can see it when he gets out of the Camaro, the same look he had at work earlier—lights on, nobody home.

“Is he gonna jump?” Robin says, hands braced on the steering wheel. “Jesus Christ Steve. I know he’s an asshole but you can’t—we can’t—”

“He’s not gonna jump,” Steve says, arms folded on the dashboard. He’s not sure why he’s so certain, chances are Billy’s so fucked up he could just tumble over the edge. Billy’s edging closer, looks like he’s staring out into the big, dark nothing. “He won’t jump. He’s not gonna jump.”

Except Billy’s still moving. His feet are dragging but he’s still moving. Steve arms are off the dashboard and braced against the car door, one hand curled around the handle, halfway to opening it. That foreboding feeling fills the car when Billy stops right at the edge, the same one he’d gotten at work. Sickly and hostile and freezing him in place and then—gone. In the same moment Billy looks like he’s snapping out of something, his whole body taut as a piano wire. 

Steve watches Billy practically scramble back to the Camaro, pulling furiously at the door until he ducks back inside of it. The engine rumbles back to life and he’s gone, just the screech of tires and the sound of gravel kicking up in a flurry before there’s an empty spot where the Camaro had been. The Lancia starts up maybe a minute later, maybe an hour. It’s hard to tell in the silence, neither of them speaking or even looking at each other.

The quiet takes him back to the hospital waiting room, sitting around a group of people he knew nothing about and hoping someone he didn’t know was going to pull through. It’s more vivid than that now, thinking about a world without Billy Hargrove. Steve thinks about the vacuum of silence, of nothing he would leave behind, everyone crowded around nothing at all at the next party, no one left to cheer for. The sense of loss surprises him, the idea of never seeing bright white teeth pulled in a grin ever again. Never hearing that mean little laugh somewhere in his peripheral, the sound of the Camaro peeling out in search of something better. He feels strangely relieved that Billy hadn’t considered the bottom of the quarry as something better, wants to tell Robin but his throat won’t work.

“See you Monday,” Robin says when she pulls into his driveway, her voice thin and her eyes looking at nothing through the windshield.

He can’t bring himself to say anything back, just climbs out and keeps his gaze on the big red door coming closer. Red like the blood on Billy’s teeth, exposed in a smile on Tommy’s kitchen floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap yourselves in for a slow burn.


	3. Chapter 3

The next two weeks are different. Not exactly good but not bad either. Billy manages to stay out of Neil’s way for the most part, even gets a slap on the back for finally getting a job. Working seems to make Neil go a little easier on him, even if it is at somewhere so utterly soul destroying. There are still some shoves, a nasty bruise on his thigh from being pushed into the kitchen counter but nothing above the waist. He takes comfort in the small things now, like being able to walk around without his face looking ugly and purple. Harrington’s mark fades too, nowhere near as strong as the ones Neil had left.

At work Robin and Steve mostly leave him to his own devices. Occasionally he gets the feeling like he’s being watched by them, like they’re trying to put the pieces of him together in their heads. They don’t bite when he mentions it, don’t seem to react when he gets real close, lips pulled back over his teeth in a way he’s practiced so many times. That only makes it worse--being ignored. There’s always been something in him that craves attention, wants people to notice him even if it is for all the wrong things. He’d prefer being shoved against the fridge, Harrington’s fist smashing into his cheek again, thinks that in some messed up way he probably misses the pain, at least it gives him something to focus on.

At night, when Neil’s drunk himself into a coma, he drives around trying to get rid of some of the pent up energy he’s got coursing through him. He ends most nights out by the quarry, trying to chase whatever nightmare it is that’s haunting him. Some nights when he’s alone in his room he’ll see it again--open his eyes to a dark grey world, watch his breath like smoke in his own room, see the roots snaking their way up his walls. Those nights he shoves whatever blanket he has over his head, squeezes his eyes closed to make it go away. And for the most part it does, but it always comes back, like he can’t shake it no matter how hard he tries.

It’s been two weeks since he last got fucked up. Two weeks since he debated throwing himself into the quarry and ending the nightmare for good. It had felt like losing control of himself, like he was a puppet being steered closer to the edge, like there was something huge and unexplainable above him with its tentacles stuck in him. Drugs don’t help anymore, neither does alcohol. They make it worse, make him feel like he really might be losing it, like nothing’s real anymore.

At the end of a late shift Robin says goodnight, the only thing that’s been spoken between them for the last six hours aside from passing customers off to each other. It doesn’t have the sarcasm it did the last time she’d said it so he doesn’t give any back, doesn’t give anything at all. Then he’s left on his own to lock up, going about twice as fast when the lights flicker. That’s always the fucking precursor, the one warning shot before everything turns into ash, and he’s not sticking around to see it happen.

He goes to the quarry even though he’s due home for _family movie night_ , can’t stomach the idea of sitting within a few feet of Neil for what he calls quality time. Part of him wants Neil to be pissed off about it, his days filled with people acting like he’s not even there or worse, acting like they’re keeping an eye on him. He’d rather have the anger, have something to dispel the urge to scream at anyone who’ll listen. He smokes through his last half pack of cigarettes and doesn’t entertain the idea of leaving to get more just yet, the leather of the driver’s seat cradling him like it’s convincing him to close his eyes. _Just for a second._

 

 

When he opens them he’s aware of two things; it’s a hell of a lot darker out now which means he slept for a while with no nightmares, and someone else is here. The maroon of the Beemer shines off the light of the moon in his peripheral and he can’t help himself from turning his head, surprised at what he sees. It’s not that Harrington’s there, he figured as much when he saw the car. It’s the quick forward snap of Steve’s head, the sort of movement someone does when they’ve just been caught doing something they aren’t supposed to. The same feeling he’s been having the past few weeks at work, just barely catching Steve in the act of—he’s not sure.

He does wonder how long Steve’s been here, how long he’s been watching, what he’s doing here in the first place. By the looks of it he’s on his own, didn’t bring Robin up here to make out or get high. This doesn’t feel like the sort of place Harrington belongs late at night by himself. He’s not like Billy, he’s got friends and people that give a shit about him, shouldn’t have to drive up here and sit in his car alone on a Friday night like Billy does. But still, there he is.

Billy fumbles around in his jean pocket for a cigarette before remembering he’s all out, the empty packet sitting screwed up in the ashtray. He should’ve got more, should’ve got a four pack too if only just to save face. Sitting up at the quarry alone without drugs or alcohol just looks odd. When he gets out of the Camaro he’s barely thinking, just fixated on getting a nicotine fix even if it does mean having to knock on Harrington’s car window.

Steve doesn’t look happy to see him and that’s not a surprise. He rolls the window down just a little, enough for Billy to smell his cigarettes, his undoubtedly expensive aftershave. What _is_ surprising is the redness in Steve’s cheeks, the way his expression looks a little panicked when Billy leans in and says, “Didn’t know you came here Harrington. Got a smoke?”

“Needed to get some space,” Steve says, lifting off the seat to pull out a pack wedged in his pocket. “Yknow— _alone_ time? Keep a few of them, I’m trying to quit anyway.”

Billy thinks that if he’s trying to quit, he’s doing a piss poor job of it but he grabs at Harrington’s cigarettes anyway. He lingers for a few seconds more, staring into the car, trying to figure Steve out. There are bags under his eyes that he’s never really noticed before, just a slight puffy purple that hints at a few sleepless nights here and there. It’s funny to think that King Steve would ever have anything to worry about, to keep him up at night.

He doesn’t say thank you, doesn’t say anything at all as he leans up against Harrington’s beemer. The smoke feels good at the back of his throat and of course Harrington buys lights. Billy doesn’t expect anything less of him. He knows he should walk back to his own car but it feels good to be back in Harrington’s space, dirtying it up a little. Steve doesn’t say anything, keeps his window unrolled and Billy can hear him fidgeting around in there, lighting up his own cigarette. In the strangest way, it’s almost comforting to share a cigarette in silence, way out here in the middle of nowhere.

When the cigarette starts to burn his lip he stubs it out in the dirt and pushes off of the car. He doesn’t look back as he walks back to the Camaro, can feel Steve’s eyes following him the entire way. Looking back means trouble, means seeing something on Harrington’s face that neither of them will know how to deal with. Ignoring is easier, even if he’s fighting against every urge he has to just peek over his shoulder and check that Steve’s still watching him.

Turns out he doesn’t have to check at all because Harrington’s there every fucking night for the next week. A handful of days of stiff silence during the day and mutual silence at night, leaning up against the Beemer while Steve dangles his own cigarette out the window, both of them looking out at the great void of the quarry. Steve doesn’t look like he’s quitting any time soon and he never gets out of the car either, eyes flicking toward Billy and burning a hole into his side every now and then. It’s...nice to be alone with somebody else and he finds himself looking forward to it after a long and soul crushing day of work.

He doesn’t know why Steve keeps showing up and he doesn’t know what to think about the look on Steve’s face whenever he sidles up to the Beemer. It’s something like relief and Billy doesn’t know what to do about how warm it makes him feel, the idea of someone watching out. It’s foreign and sets his teeth on edge but it’s a million times better than the cold of being ignored or the bitter taste of hatred.

 

 

Billy doesn’t make it on Friday. He doesn’t make it because his life goes up in fucking smoke.

 

It starts with breakfast. Billy’s always been assigned breakfast on the weekends but now that school’s out it’s like a full time job with no thanks and no fucking pay. Neil is on a tear that morning, probably upset that Max’s chauffeur has been occupied with an actual job or the fact that it signifies Billy someday leaving the prison he’s designed. He’s speaking in low tones to the right of Billy and to Billy’s credit he doesn’t react, not outwardly anyway. Inside is a different fucking story.

“Susan was left with the dishes last night because you were off doing God knows _what_ after work,” Neil hisses, his face twisting easily back into _good old dad_ when Susan walks by on her way to the living room. The second she’s gone it drops and Neil looks like his actual father again, dead eyes and a thin strip of a mouth. “I can only guess, thought getting a job might get you to stop looking like a fucking queer, knock some sense into you about what _real_ men look like. But no, of course not. Just _look at you_.”

_Jesus, fucking look at you man._

The coffee pot shatters into a million little pieces in his hands, scattering to the floor like snow and settling around his boots. His hands are shaking and that weird coked out feeling is back, the handle of the pot dropping to the floor with a thud. Then he’s the one dropping, Neil’s forearm digging into his neck to keep him down. The look on his face is—alarmed, paranoid and as always enraged. Billy kicks out to free himself but feels the glass shards digging into his chest in answer, feels Neil shove him down a few times in a row like a bad dog that’s made a mess.

“Don’t move,” Neil says, forceful and all powerful above him. “Don’t fucking move.”

There’s Susan’s voice from behind the closed door, ushering Max out of the house for ice cream. Billy wonders absently whether they’ll be going to Scoops Ahoy, whether Steve is working today, whether he’ll be at the quarry tonight. He doesn’t dwell on the thought that Susan is probably taking Max to his work as a way to distract her from all of this. From Neil and the sound of his fist connecting with Billy’s cheek.

When she’s gone it’s easier for Neil to dole out his punishment. A couple of nasty punches to Billy’s face, dragging him into his room by his hair. Neil’s talking but he’s heard it all before, like a song that won’t stop playing on the radio. He registers a few words— _useless, unreliable, worthless_ —but tries not to hear them all, can’t handle the weight of them right now. Neil’s saying something about his bedroom door, how Billy still hasn’t fixed it because Neil can’t rely on him for anything. Billy wonders how many things he’ll manage to break before _he_ does.

He’s got work in a few hours, or maybe now because he’s not sure how long he’s been laying on his bedroom floor. All he knows is the taste of copper in his mouth, the familiar ache in his cheek and jaw. Neil’s voice is jarring in the silence, creeping in from the hallway, quiet but loud enough for him to make out the words.

“He’s sick. Can’t even come to the phone right now. I’ll have him call you when he’s feeling better.”

Then there’s the sound of the phone being hung up, of his bedroom door creaking open and boots on the carpet. When Billy looks up at him he has a hard time focusing, tries to keep his gaze alert and engaged because that’s what Neil likes, that’s what makes it stop. He’s being pulled up by his shirt collar like he’s some kind of rag doll, limp and weightless under Neil’s clenched fist.

“You don’t leave this room. You don’t talk to anyone. You stay,” he says, a determined look on his face as he pushes Billy back to the ground. “I don’t want to hear a sound from you. Not a single sound.”

Billy does as he’s told, the buzzing in his skin that had started in the kitchen snuffed out like a candle. It leaves him nothing but exhausted, staring up at the stucco of the ceiling and trying to count each bump while he listens to the front door close again. He stays completely still even after he hears Neil’s truck pulling out of the driveway, watches the sky grow dark and wonders if Harrington is at the quarry, waiting for him but not waiting for him. He pictures their fingers brushing as he’s passed a cigarette even though the pack sticking out of his jacket is easy to see. If he could move he’d be there now, seeking lonesome company, anything but this.

Maybe if he tries to sleep it off the next day might come quicker and he uses the thought to push him up, crawling into bed with a crick in his neck and a face that’s turned to a dull thrum of pain. That at least is a little familiar. It’s easy then to close his eyes, pretend to be asleep when he hears Max whisper his name through the door, actually drift off when the house goes quiet again.

 

 

When he opens his eyes he’s laying on his mattress only it’s rotting underneath him, sinking into the ground where the wallpaper has curled off the walls, where his stereo lays dilapidated. He doesn’t try pinching himself or hiding anymore, blankets crumbling into ash in his hands and leaving him exposed. The door won’t open no matter how many times he pulls at the knob, no matter how hard he slams into it or how hard he screams at it. When he bolts to the window it creaks and groans in protest but pops open and he squeezes himself through what small space it provides. The reprieve of escaping his room doesn’t last.

It’s there above his head, red lightning cracking the sky and illuminating it, his eyes flicking up for the first time in this nightmare. Once they do they’re stuck there and so is the rest of him, frozen still with terror because it’s— _everywhere._ An amorphous figure taking up the entire skyline, something like arms branching out from it like a fucked up umbrella. It has no eyes but he knows it’s looking right at him and he’s pinned under it, it’s _head_ dipping down like it’s about to lean directly over him.

His back is damp with dew and there are bony hands on his arms, someone calling his name. Once he tears his eyes away from the sky everything’s the same as it was, just him laying on the front lawn in the dark. It’s Susan kneeling over him, her mouth moving and her voice frantic but he can’t hear it over the sound of himself screaming. She’s saying _night terror_ to someone and only then does he register the imposing figure of Neil standing on the walkway, watching his every move as Susan ushers him back into the house. He doesn’t look angry for once, though. Neil looks up where Billy had been staring and Billy swears he’s seeing the same fucking thing.


	4. Chapter 4

The quarry is quiet that night. Just the sound of Steve’s lighter flicking on and off, the spark of the flame lighting up his car. It’s boring to smoke alone, doesn’t calm him the way smoking with Billy does. He knows it’s not normal to share cigarettes in silence with someone you don’t really like, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling good. Doesn’t stop him from craving Billy’s presence outside his car just as much as he craves the nicotine.

There’s dread in the pit of his stomach. That horrible feeling like he’s missed something, some sign from Billy that he was thinking of ending it all again. The past few nights had been relaxing, Billy had even seemed a little lighter, a little less world weary at work. But now it’s just him and his car, parked out in the darkness, waiting for the flash of Billy’s headlights. They never come.

 

 

When he’s driving to work the next morning he doesn’t really stop to notice that he’s going ten miles over the speed limit, or that his fingers are drumming nervously on the steering wheel. It’s only when he gets to work that he slows down, stops in his tracks as Robin tells him Billy’s dad called again.

“Said he’s still too sick to come to the phone,” she says, cleaning out the ice cream scoops with a bored look on her face. “He’s probably just on a bad comedown. You know what he’s like.”

But that doesn’t do anything to make him feel better, doesn’t get rid of all the thoughts in his head. The thought of Billy finding a better place to jump, the thought of his dad covering it all up. Lingering too long on why he cares at all isn’t an option so he carries on. He smiles at customers and chats idly with Robin, talks about another party coming up at the weekend like he’ll go. Tries not to think about how empty it would feel without Billy standing around every corner.

After work, after his parents are asleep, he makes his way back out to the quarry. There are other cars there this time, a couple making out on the backseat, some kids getting stoned. He drives further, down to his and Billy’s spot, marked by the sprinkling of Marlboro Light butts on the ground. There’s no Billy. There’s nothing except for the distant noise of a car stereo. Quiet. Just like Hawkins will be without Billy in it. Billy who’s always the loudest person in the room even with his mouth shut. Billy who’s been sharing a comforting silence with him for the past week. Billy who’s _gone_.

 

 

He has the next day off but gets a call that morning, rushing to the phone when he hears his mom yelling for him downstairs. Some part of him, just for a split second, thinks it’s bad news from someone about Billy. Except no one knows about them meeting up, no one knows they even share the same space. He wonders if he’s just itching for a catastrophe like Nance says, everything too boring for him now that he’s seen the things that could be happening a few feet under the ground.

“Hey, guess Billy’s a no show until Monday. He called and I bet you anything I was right, sounded _wrecked_ ,” Robin says on the other end, nothing out of the ordinary in her voice, the sound of children yelling in the background. “Anyway, need you to come in for his late shift so I can leave. Four o’clock, see ya.”

Steve wants to ask more questions but there’s a click in his ear that tells him that’s not going to happen, not now anyway. He thinks about patrolling the woods in between now and then like he’s done a few times before, when sleep just wouldn’t come and the desire to be useful overrode everything. It sounds a lot better than staying in the company of his mother, proprietary and sad without her walking talking earpiece telling her how to carry herself. Maybe he’ll find something, maybe something weird is happening, something that’ll explain why he suddenly gives a shit about how Billy Hargrove had sounded during a _phone call_.

He slips out through the backyard and follows the train tracks until he branches off toward what he remembers Dustin calling _Mirkwood_. Some Lord of the Rings reference describing the darker thicket that separates his house from the Byers’, a stretch of dense forest, the last place Will had been the first time everything went to shit. It feels that way now, the way it had last year. Some buzz in the air, something rotting deep down and out of sight. It’s the same thing he’d felt watching Billy stare out at the quarry before he’d snapped out of it, a little hint of it at the sight of Billy high off his ass at Tina’s.

There’s nothing in the woods and there’s nothing at work, just Robin untying her apron and slipping on a pair of Keds not covered in thick layers of ice cream. He doesn’t get to investigate any further because Robin’s saying something about family dinner, already halfway out the door and leaving him with half a dozen tweens waiting in line. Work’s a slog but that at least makes some sense, gives him something to do that might not be bettering humanity or anything but—it’s something.

 

 

He drives to the quarry even though there isn’t really a point, no one there to keep him company. If Billy’s out for the next three days then he’s not coming here so he can at least fill the time rifling through his tapes, maybe passive aggressively gift Robin something he can listen to in her car that doesn’t make his ears bleed. He’s rolling down toward the usual spot when he nearly slams the breaks, his free hand faltering over his stack of tapes in the passenger seat.

The Camaro is parked and the lights are on, the driver’s door thrown open. Billy’s standing next to it smoking his own cigarette and his head whips toward Steve’s car and stays there, following it as it slows to a stop. Before Steve knows it he’s throwing it into park and climbing out, slamming the door shut and starting to stalk toward the denim clad figure only a few feet away.

“Where _were_ you?” he asks, and he’s surprised by how angry he is, how self-righteous he feels about Billy’s absence. He tries to stuff it down, struggles to grasp for some logical reason to it. “I had to come in on my day off and you’re _here_? I fucking—”

He wants to say _I waited for you_ but that’s too much, too close to admitting something. More anger comes to the surface as he gets closer, Billy’s face illuminated just barely by their headlights. It’s different this time though, tinged with a protective feeling that’s strange but familiar.

The left side of his face is a smattering of ugly yellows and browns and it’s not the only thing that makes him look fucked up, it’s the eyes. They’re bloodshot and heavy from lack of sleep, a picture Steve knows he’s seen in the mirror a handful of times since Everything Happened. He looks wired but his pupils are normal and it makes Steve frown, makes him move a little slower.

“What happened to you?” comes out a little less accusatory but he doesn’t get an answer. He gets Billy making an aborted movement with his hands, almost like he’d been about to reach forward for—what? He doesn’t know, but then Billy’s walking and the world tilts on its fucking axis.

The sound of Billy’s knees hitting the gravel is ringing in his ears, followed by jittery hands fiddling with the front of his jeans. It takes Steve a second, maybe too long, to shove him backwards and move back himself. When his back hits the passenger side of the Beemer he’s got nowhere else to go, just watches Billy slump.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, man? What are you doing?” he spits, something sour and defensive rearing up in him.

It’s the same part of him that hissed _queer_ at Jonathan, the one that Tommy had cheered in junior high, _faggot_ flying from his mouth at whatever smaller, weaker boy was in front of him. Except he doesn’t want to say it now, and it’s not just because of how dejected Billy looks. It’s because even with bags under his eyes and his face like a bruised fruit, Billy’s eyes are still big and blue, his jaw still sharp enough to cut glass. He’s moving closer but he hasn’t gotten up, almost crawling toward Steve until he’s just a foot away, staring up at him like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“ _Please_ ,” Billy says, in a voice that sounds like it’s being run through a meat grinder, hoarse and almost desperate. It’s the first time Steve’s ever heard him say it aside from using it to talk his way out of detention, to get a girl to grab the good whiskey out of her parents’ liquor cabinet. “It’ll be a secret, alright? No one’ll know, no one’s gonna know if you let me.”

He’s not sure how to decipher all of the different feelings that start knocking around inside his head. Or how to deal with the sudden urge to share secrets with Billy, ones that have him on him in his knees in the dirt. There’s no more space to move, no way of getting out because Billy’s inching closer, his eyes distant and sad but just a tiny bit hopeful too. His breath comes too quick, has him getting dizzy like he’s about to pass out, has him slumping against his car and letting Billy get his hands on his zipper.

That’s why. It’s not because he wants it. It’s not because there’s something dangerous and exciting about Billy giving up something like this. It’s because he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t even form thoughts properly to comprehend the situation. The urge to shove him away disappears as soon as Billy’s pushing his jeans down. Thinking about it isn’t an option now. There’s nothing but Billy’s mouth opening, his blue eyes looking up for a moment before warmth engulfs him.

Billy doesn’t waste any time dancing around the subject, just throws himself into it. The metal of the car door is cold underneath Steve’s ass. He flexes his fingers, wonders if he could reach for a cigarette just to give them something to do. There’s faint music in the distance, a reminder that they’re not completely alone out here. It should make him want to push Billy away again, put an end to whatever it is that’s happening. Instead, he brings shaking fingers up to Billy’s face, finds his cheeks hollowed and soft.

Billy slaps his hands away and pulls off, something irritable on his face, there and gone in a flash. He’s looking up at Steve with something knowing on his face, one hand curling around the waistline of his jeans and tugging them down a bit further.

“Not a fucking girl, Harrington,” Billy says, staring up for a few more seconds before bending back down, taking Steve’s cock in one go.

Steve wonders where the fuck he learned how to do any of this, the movements clearly practised and comfortable. The way he flicks his tongue up against the frenulum, the way the spit is running down his chin, it all looks like something he’s done before. The familiarity of it makes him reach down again, just one hand ghosting across the unblemished side of Billy’s face, fingertips settling against his cheekbone. To his surprise Billy doesn’t stop him, just exhales heavily through his nose and keeps bobbing.

Sure, it _is_ familiar, but it’s also probably the best blowjob he’s ever gotten. There’s no hesitance and Billy looks like he’s enjoying himself, like he’s savouring a long awaited meal. It’s fucking embarrassing how quickly he can feel his orgasm coming on, his fingers brushing a few stray curls on Billy’s head and then—that’s it. He doesn’t even have the wherewithal to warn Billy like he might with a girl, just a strangled noise and a barely there pat on his head before he comes.

Billy’s off of him a second later, spitting crudely into the gravel and dragging the back of his hand over his mouth. Steve watches him stand up on shaky legs while he tucks himself back into his jeans, leaning heavily against the Beemer and waiting for Billy to maybe say something, grow a second head so he can know for sure this didn’t actually happen. Instead Billy does reach forward this time, only it’s to grab his pack of Marlboro Lights out of his jacket and shake a cigarette out. Then it’s a strangely light touch when the pack gets put back, Billy turning around and stalking to the Camaro without a glance in his direction.

His voice doesn’t work at first and Billy’s name gets stuck in his throat, comes out like some awkward garbled mess. Then it’s too late. Billy’s already slammed shut the door of the Camaro and turned the engine on. The stereo comes on loudly, some kind of fucked up, abrasive country song as his tires kick up dirt and cigarette butts. When he’s gone Steve finally moves off of his car, a boneless sensation taking over that almost has him toppling over.

The two cigarettes that he chain smokes in his car help a little, calm some of his nerves and give him something to focus on that isn’t the ghost of Billy’s mouth. He doesn’t panic, doesn’t sit there trying to figure out exactly what he said or did led Billy to do what he did. He just smokes,watches it snake up from the cherry red end of the cigarette, savours the taste of it in his mouth—tries to forget.

Turns out it’s practically impossible not to think about Billy. About how plump and inviting his lips looked wrapped around his cock. About the way he practically sighed the second time Steve touched his face. About the way it looked like Billy was going to reach out and touch him before he dropped to his knees. There are some things he doesn’t want to think about though. Like the bruises across Billy’s face or the real reason he called out sick from work the past few days. If he starts thinking about that then he won’t be able to stop and that’s dangerous. He’s not supposed to think about Billy, not like _this_ anyway.

When the second cigarette is finished he flicks the end out of the window, turns the key in the ignition. He doesn’t reverse, doesn’t move the car at all. Just sits there with his foot pressing down on the accelerator, his hands gripping the wheel, thinking about the yellowish brown across Billy’s face and the sound of his knees shifting in the gravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They don't exactly like each other so--that still counts as a slow burn right?


	5. Chapter 5

Three days off waiting for his face to heal leaves Billy with a lot of time to think. Neil doesn’t want him out of his room, probably because Susan would be too scandalized by his face and Maxine would ask too many questions. If there’s one thing Neil hates more than his son it’s people being nosy about his business, about his choices of  _ discipline _ . There are, it turns out, things more scandalous to people than a father hitting his son. 

Finding mouths to get lost in and hands to put where he wanted them wasn’t hard in California, though it wasn’t easy to start with. He can still remember fourteen year old Billy finally dragging up the courage to kiss Lou Masterson in the bathroom at Santa Monica Place, hands Dr. Pepper sticky in his hair, the rush of not having to pretend just this once. He can remember his back hitting the tile after a few fumbling moments of their tongues dragging together, Lou spitting  _ fag _ down at him like he hadn’t been a part of it. That ended up costing him a handful of friends and his favorite skate spot, though no one ever found out why. 

Fifteen was easier because that was the summer he met Kelly. Tall and brunette, all legs and a smile that made his eyes hurt. He was sixteen and wise in the way that one more year of shitty adolescence made someone else seem, a casual shrug while they pulled stolen beers out of their backpack on the beach. Billy must’ve spent his entire summer there, watching Kelly surf and brushing sand off of his tanned shoulders for him when he’d settle back down next to him. Laying down nice and easy for him in the back of his Volkswagen Golf for the first time, big brown eyes and big hands lacing their fingers together like some kind of fucking romance novel. Billy had liked it then, though, someone caring if something hurt, trying not to let it. 

His hand had been curled around Kelly’s arm that day, his head tipped back in laughter. He should’ve known the second he’d made eye contact with Neil when he’d snuck out, he should’ve known. Neil’s shadow towering over them. Neil breaking the hand that had held Kelly’s arm, held his face, other things too. Max standing in the doorway like she’d done something good, Neil patting her shoulder like he thought so too. Watching Santa Monica disappear, watching cold and fireflies and cow shit come into view. 

Now it’s groping for show at a party, touching whoever he thinks will help keep it all up. It puts him at arm’s length and that’s all that really matters, that he keeps hearing people cheer his name, hand him a beer like it’s a consolation prize for being normal. It isn’t always though, not the past year. Sometimes it’s a trucker bar in Lebanon, following a man old enough to be his father to some Value Inn a few blocks away. Sometimes it’s letting that part of him that seeks contact wither and die under their hands, rough and ugly and probably what he deserves. Sometimes it’s that. 

And then there’s Steve who let him do something dangerous in the dark. Steve who pushed him away and then stroked his face. Steve who made soft little moans in the still of the night and called his name when he walked away. Thing about Steve is that he can’t quite figure out what he’ll do next. Whether he’ll just give in, push for more or shove him back down in the dirt. Either way, at least Steve Harrington won’t be spreading all of Billy’s secrets around Hawkins. Not now he’s incriminated himself just as much as Billy has.

 

 

He’s on the fourth day of calling out from work when Neil comes into his bedroom. The door creaks open and then he’s standing there, looming over him like that thing in the sky, waiting to take a piece of him. At this point, Billy’s fairly certain he doesn’t have anything left to take—nothing of worth anyway. Everything he is has been ground down, made worthless under Neil’s roof and his fists. Neil doesn’t stay long, he never does. Billy thinks it’s probably because he can’t stand to be around him, wonders if Harrington thinks the same thing on nights that he doesn’t show up to the quarry. 

“Get out of bed,” Neil says through gritted teeth, his fists ready at his side.

When Billy’s stood in front of him it’s like being put under a microscope, Neil assessing every little crack and colour on his face. It’s not good, not like looking and appreciating something. It’s like Neil’s making a mental list of all of Billy’s flaws.

“You’re going to work. Maybe that’s what you need to keep you in line. You’ll tell them that you were sick, that you passed out and hit your head. Do you understand me?” he asks, face turned into a nasty scowl.

“Yes, Sir,” Billy mumbles, eyes fixed on Neil. All he really wants to do is look down, look anywhere else but that never flies with Neil, just makes it worse.

“I can’t hear you, Billy,” he says, getting close enough for Billy to smell the faint scent of booze on his breath.

“Yes,  _ Sir _ ,” Billy repeats, louder this time, like he’s been trained.

Neil leaves and that’s the only sign that he’s done what his father wants, just the sound of his bedroom door being shut and him ceasing to exist again. He squeezes into his stupid uniform and hides the hat in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, swiping his keys off of the coffee table before Neil changes his mind. He acts like Billy isn’t there and it’s honestly a blessing, though he doesn’t miss the way Max’s eyes linger on what’s left of his bruises. Like father like son he ignores it, makes sure the front door barely makes a sound when he finally slips out. 

 

 

When he gets into Scoops Robin and Steve are already there. Robin looks bored as usual and Steve looks like he wants someone to put him out of his misery but the second they look at him their faces completely change. Maybe not to anyone else, but to  _ him _ and he can practically hear what they’re thinking. It’s sympathetic and concerned in a mostly objective way, the left side of his face still a little like a bruised pear. Harrington only got to see it in the dark but it must still look like shit if even the cover up he stole from Melvald’s isn’t working. 

“Glad to see you back,” Robin says and that’s  _ not _ like her, so not like her that his eyes zero in on her, dig around until he can sniff out what’s behind that cautious little expression. All he gets for his trouble is her avoiding his eyes and smiling at a set of families waltzing in. 

“Spare me,” he says, edging past her to clear a few tables. When he’s bending to pick up a napkin some brat must’ve thrown he gets the familiar feeling of eyes on him and snaps his head, Steve suddenly looking very interested in scrubbing a hole in the countertop. Interesting. 

It keeps happening, all the way through his shift. Steve’s eyes are on him when he’s not looking. He doesn’t have to see them to know they’re there, can feel them like a weight on his back. They prod into him, searching for something in the curve of his spine and the hunch in his shoulders. He doesn’t know what Steve’s looking for, doesn’t want to spend much time thinking about it either because whatever he finds won’t be good. There’s no good left.

The constant throng of customers is enough to distract him for a while, helps him keep his eyes forward, stops him from staring back at Steve. His memory of last night is vivid--the way his knees hurt in a way that actually felt good, like the pain was actually worth something; the weight of Steve’s cock in his mouth; spitting up in the dirt and not letting himself look at that sad, confused look on Steve’s face. He’s fairly certain that he’d see that look again if he dared to cast his eyes in Steve’s direction, some stupid concern on his face that Billy doesn’t really understand or feel worthy of in anyway. Not that he wants Harrington’s concern--he doesn’t. Doesn’t want anything from him really except maybe a distraction from the pain, a safe place to let his mask slip for just a few minutes.

 

 

He’s outside smoking when Steve comes crashing into his alone time, big brown eyes looking and finding him leant up against the wall. There’s a nervousness about Steve today, a kind of hesitation and Billy wonders what he’s going to say, whether he’s going to hear  _ I’m not gay  _ or  _ this can’t happen again _ . Or maybe something worse--the kind of shit that Billy can’t prepare for.

“We need to talk,” is what he ends up saying and honestly, that’s almost worse than being fifteen at Santa Monica Pier.

Steve has both of his hands shoved in his pockets, looking nervously between the ground and Billy. But Billy won’t look at him, won’t look anywhere except down because if there’s one thing that living with Neil has taught him it’s that sometimes it’s better to make yourself smaller. When Steve starts talking again he’s staring too, running hands through his hair and stumbling over his words.

“I’m not good with this kind of stuff. I don’t really know what to say--like, how to talk about it, y’know? But I can’t pretend like it didn’t happen. I won’t do that.”

“You know, employees aren’t supposed to take their breaks together,” Billy says lightly, tipping his head back against the brick, shoving his hands into his pockets and balancing his cigarette between his lips. “It’s in the employee handbook, Harrington.”

“Yeah, well,  _ employees _ aren’t supposed to suck each other off at the quarry either,” Steve fires back and then his eyes finally move up and Billy thinks  _ finally _ . He looks more flustered than angry but that little negative thread is still there, the kind that makes Billy’s blood sing, keeps him alive. 

“You didn’t suck my dick, so technically we didn’t suck each other off,” Billy replies, a slow, feline smile spreading across his face as he exhales. He watches as Steve sputters and throws his hands up in exasperation, hears  _ not the point  _ but it seems like Steve’s having a hard time coming up with anything else. “We don’t need to  _ talk _ , not unless you’re looking for more.”

“What happened to your face, Billy?” 

Well, that one’s a surprise. Not exactly a scenario he’d expected but one that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, raises his hackles until he’s clenching his jaw. His face hardens as he pulls his hand out of his pocket, flicking his cigarette into the alley and stepping a bit closer, voice lowered. 

“Listen to me, because I’m not fucking repeating myself,” Billy says, close enough that he can smell Steve, a mix of waffle batter and Calvin Klein that makes him a little dizzy, not enough to distract him. “Just because I’m  _ thinking  _ about letting you fuck me, that doesn’t make us  _ gal pals _ . I’m not crying on your shoulder just because you’ve got a nice dick, Harrington.”

“Christ’s sake, what’s wrong with you?” Steve says, stepping back and looking at Billy like he’s one of those bums on skid row, like he’s crazy, and Billy thinks  _ there it is _ .

He watches him take another few steps and look over his shoulder at Billy, all that uncomfortable concern nowhere to be found. Everything finally looks the way Billy wants it, though he guesses part of him wonders if that shared quiet is ever going to happen again. Before Steve rounds the corner Billy cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “You know where to find me if you change your mind,  _ asshole _ !”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one from Billy's head. More soon.


	6. Chapter 6

Scrubbing down tables and dealing with children hyped up on sugar turns out to be a pretty good distraction from Billy. Steve doesn’t even notice that’s it 4pm until Billy’s hanging up his apron and putting his leather jacket on. They don’t say goodbye. Steve’s not entirely sure what to say to Billy now anyway, not after  _ I’m thinking about letting you fuck me  _ and  _ you’ve got a nice dick _ . It feels like the kind of thing he should respond to, even if it’s to just set Billy straight. Tell him it was just a moment of madness, that it didn’t mean anything, that Steve doesn’t play that way. He just watches Billy leave, keeps his eyes fixed on his back and tries to push down that part of him that wants to look lower. 

 

Later, it’s much harder to hide that part of him. He makes it through a family dinner okay, even contributes to some small talk with his dad. It’s remarkably easy to fake an interest in the economy over a tired looking meatloaf his mom had bought from the store. Talking about subjects his father likes means  _ not  _ talking about when he’s going to get a  _ real  _ job. But that doesn’t stop his mother, clearly bored and playing with her food.

 

“Anyone you’re seeing recently, Stephen?” she asks, eyes twinkling as she envisions grandchildren and a pretty wife.

 

“No, mom,” he says, trying not to think about the real answer to the question. He can’t imagine telling his mom that the last person he had anything to do with was Billy. “Not seeing anybody. Just focusing on work y’know? Ron thinks I could make assistant manager in a couple of months.”

 

“What about Robin? You both seem so close,” she says, eyebrows raising and a big smile on her face.

 

“No, mom. She’s just a friend,” Steve says, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. They’ve been through this a thousand times about Robin, his mom seemingly incapable of understanding how they could  _ just  _ be friends.

 

She seems to accept it this time, turning silent and focusing back on her plate as his father starts up about the qualities a manager should have. It’s a welcome distraction from talking about relationships, although it doesn’t stop his mind from racing. He can’t remember the last time he got that butterfly feeling from meeting somebody, thinks it must’ve been Nancy. Billy doesn’t give him butterflies. Billy gives him a full bodied nervous reaction, makes his hands shake, throws his entire world off of its axis. 

 

And Billy has him sneaking out of his bedroom window even though he could use the front door. Has him shimmying down the tree outside until his feet land safely on the grass. Has him driving twelve miles over the speed limit to get to the quarry, hands dug into the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat.

 

There’s nobody there when he arrives, just a pile of cigarette butts and the memory of Billy on his knees right here. He can’t say he hasn’t thought about it, that it hasn’t been the feature of every single waking moment since it happened. But it’s not because he wants it to happen again. It’s definitely not that. He’s only here to clear the air, to tell Billy that he doesn’t want anything from him and that whatever last night was, it’s a one time deal—nothing more.

 

It’s another forty five minutes before Steve hears the roar of the Camaro, turning his head and following it as it slows to a stop. For a moment it feels like playing chicken on the court, watching Billy sitting in his car, his eyes on the quarry instead of Steve’s car. He doesn’t have time to really wonder what Billy’s thinking about because he’s coming this way, leaning up against the passenger’s side like it’s normal. Like it’s just any other night. Like Steve isn’t completely losing his mind. 

 

He makes Steve wait like that until he’s flicking the cigarette out into the gravel and climbing into the Beemer, the sound of the door shutting making Steve flinch despite the thousands of times he’s heard it before. It sounds like something a whole lot heavier being slammed shut, especially when he gets a good look at Billy. He looks sad, like he’s resigned himself to something that’s got nothing to do with sitting inside of Steve’s car, looks a little hungry too. He’s not meeting Steve’s eyes but it’s because he’s preoccupied staring over the rest of him, sussing him out. 

 

Whatever half-assed speech Steve had concocted on the wait here, in the time he’s spent waiting, dies before it has a chance to leave his mouth. Yearning for contact wins out, the kind he hasn’t really thought on since Nance. He’s lost the fucking plot, must finally be cracking under the aftermath of  _ trauma  _ like Nance says. Looking at Billy though, at his Cupid’s bow and his angry eyebrows and that little hint of something sadder underneath, there’s just no question anymore of what he’s going to do. 

 

If it was anyone else, if it was a girl, Steve would probably go in for a kiss right about now. Instead he grabs whatever hand is closest and guides it down the front of his jeans, a little surprised at how hard he is already. The fingers on his cock instantly curl around him and it makes his head tip back, makes his eyes flutter closed and stay that way. If he doesn’t look then maybe he can pretend; that the soft exhale he hears in the passenger’s seat is someone else, that the hand around his dick is small and soft and a girl’s, that it doesn’t mean anything. 

 

Billy doesn’t seem to mind and if he does he doesn’t say anything, just keeps his hand strong and builds a rhythm that has Steve biting his lip. It’s easy to pretend but he doesn’t, can’t seem to shake the image of Billy even with his eyes closed. And surprisingly that doesn’t dampen his arousal in the slightest. He’s moaning a little. A soft noise that he knows Billy can hear, one he hopes doesn’t sound as desperate as it feels. Then Billy’s hand is gone and he opens his eyes for a split second. He regrets it instantly because Billy’s got a greedy smile on his face and his eyes are so big, so blown wide when he pushes Steve’s jeans down and takes out his cock.

 

“Jesus.  _ King  _ fucking Steve,” he says, a little breathless.

 

Steve’s got his eyes squeezed shut again so he doesn’t see Billy’s head dip down, doesn’t know that Billy’s about to take the head of his cock into his mouth until the last minute. Then it’s too late to stop it. Not that he wants to stop the warm, wet heat of Billy’s mouth engulfing him. It’s so much better than before, Billy’s taking his time and dragging his tongue up and down the side of his cock. That tiny movement alone is enough to make Steve’s hips buck, his hands coming up to Billy’s hair and holding on tight. He’s never been this forceful with girls before, always too concerned about being nice but he doesn’t have to worry about that with Billy. They don’t like each other, none of this matters.

 

He knows he’s going to cum embarrassingly quick and he can’t help it, feels like he’s chasing it as he thrusts up over and over. There’s nothing but the messy wet noise of Billy’s mouth, the sound of his own breath coming fast and hard as he reaches his orgasm. Then he’s pushing Billy’s head down as far as it’ll go, listening to him gag as he throws his own head back and moans. He can feel Billy swallow around him and it makes him shudder, makes him let go of his head and open his eyes just a little.

 

Billy’s panting almost as hard as he is, his lips swollen and his cheeks flush as he leans against the door. Steve watches his hand come up to drag across his face, watches his eyes close and uses the moment to look at him. Some of the tension is gone but mostly what Steve notices is how he looks—fuck’s sake, he can’t even  _ think _ it. Then Billy’s eyes are on him again and they’re expectant, his breathing still a bit shallow and he knows why. 

 

He leans forward and curls his hand around the passenger door handle to push it open, sitting straight back in his seat after. Billy’s leaning on the door so heavily he stumbles a bit but doesn’t fall out, just stares at Steve before something changes. His lips thin and he swallows hard, something Steve’s not going to think about flashing in his eyes as he climbs out of the seat. He’s expecting the slam of the door but he still flinches, does again when Billy kicks it hard from the outside once, then again. 

 

“You—fucking  _ asshole _ ,” Billy seethes, gritting his teeth as he takes another step back, winding up to punch the side of the Beemer so hard there’ll probably be a dent to explain away. “You can’t catch anything from a fucking—you  _ prick _ .”

 

They spend a long minute staring at each other, shame rolling over Steve like hot oil because he’s thinking about it now, what’s on Billy’s face. It’s hurt, the real kind, no posturing or chest puffing, just hurt. Then it morphs into something else and the air gets thick, builds and builds and then he’s got his arms over his head. They’re there because every window in the Beemer is gone, shattered to fucking smithereens, the seats covered in glass and nothing separating him from Billy but the skeleton of the car. 

 

It takes a moment to actually comprehend the situation. The fact that he just got a blowjob from Billy,  _ again _ , and now he’s sat in a car with no windows. Billy looks utterly terrified and just as confused as Steve when he looks at him. Then he’s bolting back to his Camaro, not looking back even when Steve yells his name. It’s only when Steve’s up and out of the wrecked car that he stops, back tense and refusing to turn around.

 

“Stop. You need to stop,” Steve says slowly, edging a little closer like Billy’s some kind of rabid animal. “Just stop for a second.”

 

“And do what  _ Harrington _ ? You gonna tell me you’re not a queer? Or that it’s alright for me to suck you off but you’re never gonna touch me?” Billy says, still not turning around. “I don’t need to talk to you. I don’t need to fucking talk to anyone.”

 

Steve doesn’t want to talk about what they did because that’s a minefield he’s not ready to tackle yet, so he doesn’t. “The windows—did you…how did you?” he says, a few more steps closer until he could almost reach out and touch Billy.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Harrington, they just smashed. How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

 

It’s a lie. A fairly obvious one at that but it means that Steve needs to change tact, let on a little of what he already knows about anger and power. 

 

“I think you—your mind, it’s powerful right? Like, you can make things happen. Y’know, break shit?” he says, aiming for casual but failing rather spectacularly. It’s one thing to get a blowjob from Billy, it’s another to talk about things like upside down worlds and superpowers.

 

Steve thinks he hears Billy say  _ coffee pot  _ under his breath but other than that there’s no reply, not for a while. He watches him shake his head a few times before turning around. That’s when Steve knows, knows without a fucking doubt. 

 

“Your nose is bleeding,” Steve says, his voice hollow in his ears. He reaches out to wipe at the trail of blood on Billy’s face, more out of shock than anything, but Billy flinches so hard he knocks right into the Camaro. “I know someone, a girl. When she moves things—she gets a nosebleed just like that, every time.”

 

“It’s not the first time I’ve gotten one from being pissed off, it’s a fucking blood vessel,” Billy snaps, though he’s not making any moves to get into the car anymore. He’s reaching up to wipe his nose and staring at his hand after and Steve can practically hear the gears turning in his head. 

 

“She grew up in a lab I guess, Hawkins Lab, just over there,” Steve says, pointing out beyond the quarry where he knows there’s a building, big and imposing and heavily guarded. “Government wanted to turn her into something, some kind of weapon against the Russians or something. She was born there, just right there. Billy—were you?”

 

“I was born in fucking Santa Monica, Harrington, never set foot in this shithole before last year. Had a normal, shitty childhood like everyone else. Think I’d remember living in a—what? Some secret lab?” Billy says incredulously, though he’s looking at where Steve was pointing now, eyes fixed on something neither of them can see. “You’re fucking kidding me, right? You do some heavy shit or something after work?”

 

“I’m serious. There’s a place—”

 

He stops for a moment and takes it all in—the windows, the nosebleed, the look on Billy’s face like he doesn’t understand any of it. It’s no use telling Billy anything else, not when he doesn’t believe it. After all it could just be a strange coincidence, although Steve knows enough now to call bullshit on that. It’s pointless carrying on so he doesn’t finish his sentence, just keeps his gaze focused on Billy and lets the horrible feeling of shame roll over him.

 

“I’m sorry. I  _ was _ an asshole. I’m not,” he stops again, trying to find the right words because what he wants to say is  _ I’m not gay  _ but Billy’s already called him on that. “This whole thing is fucking confusing. You’re supposed to hate me. I’m supposed to hate you.”

 

“You don’t have to like me, Harrington. That’s not a condition of fucking me,” Billy says easily, like he’s said it before in some other life, like it’s something he’s used to. “I don’t know what happened to your windows. Maybe I kicked your door too hard but you fucking deserved it. I’m sure you’ve got more than enough money to get it all fixed up.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes and shoves his hands in his pockets, looks at his shoes because looking at Billy is dangerous. Looking at Billy makes him want things he can’t have. He needs to leave or else he’s going to pull Billy into his space again, he can already feel the urge to do it building inside him.

 

“Guess I’ll see you at work?” There’s a little hopefulness in his voice, like he’s waiting for Billy to tell him it's okay.

 

But Billy doesn’t give him anything, just spits on the ground by his shoes and glares at him. Then he’s getting into the Camaro, heavy music starting as soon as he turns on the engine. All Steve’s left with is a cloud of dirt and a car full of broken glass.


	7. Chapter 7

Billy drives home full of questions, some for Steve and plenty for Neil.  _ How did you know all of that shit? Why did you kick me out of your car? Was that really me? Am I missing something?  _ He knows he’s late to be home when he pulls into the driveway and he knows he’s going to be in deep shit but the questions keep him distracted, mulling them over even when he sees Neil in his armchair, a tumbler full of something dark in his hand. 

“You missed dinner, Billy,” Neil says, his eyes fixed on the television, his fingers curling around the glass as he takes a swig. “Susan had to cook and clean up without any help. What was so important that you needed to dodge your responsibilities at home?”

_ I was sucking Steve Harrington off at the quarry. He basically pushed me out of his car after. I think I got so angry that I broke all of his windows but I don’t understand how, he said I have  _ powers  _ or something. He said he knows someone, someone who does the same things.  _

“Dad, did I ever—when I was little, did—was I living anywhere else?” Billy says cautiously, sitting down on the very edge of the couch. It’s not often he’s allowed to and he thinks Neil will probably see it as a slight but he can’t stop himself, has to at least try to ask. “With like, doctors? Like a hospital?”

Neil’s face shifts in an instant, reactions dulled by whatever he’s been drinking all night. Billy catches a look of alarm in his father’s eyes before it shutters into anger, watches him set the glass down suspiciously gentle. That’s always the quiet before the storm and he knows he’s right because a second later Neil’s hand is twisted up in the collar of his shirt, cutting his oxygen off as he looms over him. Neil’s asking him if he’s on drugs but it feels far away, his eyes fixed on a picture frame on the mantle. He tries to break it, thinks maybe it’ll scare Neil into backing off but nothing happens. Nothing except Neil shaking him roughly, demanding an answer. 

“No, sir, I just—something— _ is there something wrong with me _ ?” Billy asks, whispering the question, looking Neil in the eye and hoping for once he can tell him something, that he might understand. 

“Plenty,” is all Neil says through gritted teeth, and Billy can feel all the questions sink down some unfathomable depth, replaced by that familiar sick feeling. Stupid, it was stupid. 

Neil doesn’t hit him, doesn’t seem to have the energy for that tonight. Instead he gets thrown into his bedroom, the door slammed shut behind him and all he can hear is  _ useless _ ,  _ waste of space, piece of shit _ . Somehow that’s worse than a punch in the face, it cuts deeper than Neil’s ring on his cheek. But it teaches him a valuable lesson—to not ask questions. Eyes down, mouth shut, it’s easier that way. It’s always been that way, Neil never wanting to see him or hear from him at all.

He can feel his hands shaking, his eyes burning like he’s about to cry but he won’t let the tears fall. It all comes crashing down on him—the feeling of Neil’s hand digging into his bicep, Steve practically pushing him out of his car. His eyes fix on the candle that’s on his makeshift dressing table, eyes focused on it intently. It only takes a few seconds for it to smash just like Steve’s windows had, pieces of glass flying everywhere and wax dripping to the floor. Then he’s crawling around on his knees, picking up each piece and wiping the blood from his nose, hoping that Neil didn’t hear anything.

 

 

Sleep doesn’t come that night and by the morning Billy feels like he’s disassociating from his own reality. There’s broken glass on his dressing table and dried blood on his nose. He makes his way through breakfast and pretends that everything’s okay, smiles at Susan and says  _ thank you  _ like the well behaved son he is. He laughs at Neil’s joke, the one he makes with Max that has her giggling, tries not to dwell on the way Neil’s eyes narrow in his direction. 

He doesn’t dwell on anything at all, it turns out, not until he gets to work. He plays the good son and chauffeurs Max to the arcade before his shift, gives her a handful of quarters and ignores her look of suspicion, smiling like a fucking crazy person. When he steps foot into Scoops he ignores Robin’s  _ hi billy  _ but doesn’t snap, just shoulders past her and pastes the smile on again for the people on the other side of the counter. Everything is fine, normal, no deranged superhero shit here, no sir. It goes along fine until Steve comes in to relieve Robin, one set of confused eyes exchanged for another. 

Usually he can feel Steve’s eyes on him but this time he can feel his presence too, just a foot or two away the whole fucking shift. It feels like Steve’s silently mothering him, going as far as seriously almost helping him get the till open. Billy’s quick to bristle, looking at Steve with an expression that nearly always works, one that says  _ I’ll bite your fucking hand off _ . It does until they’re closing up, Steve right behind him as he’s locking the double glass doors. 

“Hey, are you feeling—everything alright?” Steve stammers out, and Billy can feel his hand hovering over his shoulder and what the  _ fuck _ . 

Billy stiffens and looks behind him, Steve’s big puppy dog eyes even bigger, sad and concerned. It makes him feel like he’s in the fucking  _ Twilight Zone _ and he just wants shit to make sense, wants  _ something _ to look like it’s supposed to. So he reaches out and curls a hand into the front of Steve’s stupid sailor shirt, pushing him back and following suit until they’re behind the counter, dropping to his knees because this, this makes sense. 

“Billy, you d— _ fuck _ ,” Steve says above him, silenced by how good it must feel to have his dick in Billy’s mouth again. He feels Steve’s hands on his face just like the first time but he doesn’t slap them away, just makes quick work of shoving the shorts and underwear down to Steve’s ankles, taking his cock as far in as he can. 

It’s a good distraction from everything else that’s going on in his head, makes him feel like he’s worth something for just a few minutes. Steve’s hands are gentle, stroking the tips of his long fingers across Billy’s cheeks and over his hair like he’s trying to make Billy feel good. That has to be impossible because the last time this happened he practically got shoved out of Steve’s car. But he’s making the fatal mistake of looking up and Steve’s eyes are actually open. They’re open and he’s looking down at Billy like he’s something good, something that deserves to be looked at with soft brown eyes.

He doesn’t look up again, doesn’t want to take the risk. Instead he just forces himself to take Steve’s cock deeper into his mouth, until it’s hitting the back of his throat and making him choke. It feels like his mouth is being split open but he carries on, doesn’t stop for a second because stopping means letting the thoughts in and he can’t deal with them right now. Can’t deal with that look on Harrington’s face either.

“ _ Billy _ ,” Harrington moans and that almost stops him dead in his tracks because that’s  _ his  _ name. He’d almost imagined Steve calling him Nancy, or some other girls name just to make things right in his head. But hearing his own name—that’s something he wasn’t prepared for at all.

Steve’s cumming and holding onto his head, pushing his cock in as far as it’ll go just like he had in the car, a split second of selfishness that makes arousal twist hard in Billy’s stomach. He exhales heavily and swallows, tilting his head back once he pulls off as he catches his breath, Steve’s hands settling over either side of his face again. This time Billy’s the one who can’t open his eyes, savoring the feeling before he knows he can’t pretend he deserves it any longer, shoving himself backwards to scramble to his feet. Steve’s hand lands on his forearm, his thumb rubbing up and down and it’s too much, his cue to run off like the fucking coward that he is, ignoring the soft sound of his name as he leaves. 

 

 

The next week is a lot like that, the two of them falling into a pattern Billy could almost call comfortable. They work together or they don’t, hardly spare each other any hostile words during the day, though Billy can feel the tension bleeding out of him every day that passes just a few feet from Steve. He blows him at work or the quarry depending on the day, lets Steve touch him almost reverently, pretends he doesn’t feel so put out when Steve continues to not return the favor. He’s not really expecting anything anymore, just takes what he can and if that’s just a few minutes of having someone hold his head then it’ll do. Like everything else it doesn’t last. 

He’s locking up during his one solo shift, so caught up thinking about going to the quarry in a few hours that the flicker of the lights doesn’t really register. He reaches for the handle of the door once he reaches the Camaro and the whole thing comes apart, ash streaking his hands instead. His eyes are on the ground because he knows what’ll be there when he looks up, closes them tight the next second as he climbs into the skeleton of the Camaro. He fits the key in the ignition and turns it, eyes still closed for a minute but when he opens them everything is normal, just some leftover sound of thunder in his ears. He’s fucking losing it. 

He’s in Steve’s driveway before he knows it, almost like he’d been driving on autopilot. He’s never been inside, snooped once or twice after dropping Max off but that’s it. The only other car in the driveway is the Beemer, windows shiny and new and at least that’s back to normal. Maybe he can convince Harrington to drive him to whatever loony bin they have in Indiana, maybe he shouldn’t be driving if he’s seeing shit, he doesn’t know. When he shuts the now-existent driver’s door it’s like someone snapped their fingers and turned it into night. Ash is falling everywhere and the—it’s close, it  _ is  _ leaning over him this time, following him as he runs to Steve’s front door. He hits it as hard as he can and can’t help but look up now, can hear a sound like a frightened animal and realizes it’s him, hits the door over and over and hopes it opens in time. 

When it does he practically falls through it, lands on the wooden floor and hears himself sobbing. There’s no more ash, no more grey. Just the bright lights of Harrington’s house and he knows he’s back in the real world but the fear is still there, taking over every single inch of him. He can hear Steve’s voice in the distance, can see his face hovering but he’s too concerned with pointing up at the sky.

“It’s—it’s trying to get me. It gets closer every single time,” he says and then Steve’s hands are on his face. It’s a shock to feel them there and it makes him startle, his entire body freezing up as he hears the telltale sound of glass smashing.

This time it’s the lightbulbs in the fancy lamps Steve’s parents keep in the hallway. They shatter and he knows that it’s his fault, that he did it somehow.  _ Coffee pot. Windows. Candle. Light bulbs _ . There’s no pattern, just things close to him that break and crumble under the weight of all of his emotions. He’s staring up at Steve who’s saying something, telling him to breathe, to copy his breathing.

“You don’t understand. I don’t know what it wants but I know it wants  _ me _ . It’s gonna—I don’t want to die,” Billy says, choking on a sob and gripping onto Steve’s arm. “Don’t let it kill me. Don’t let it.”

“Breathe with me. Please Billy, you’re having a panic attack. Just breathe,” Steve says, his hands running through Billy’s hair like he does when Billy’s on his knees. Only now Billy’s curled up, his eyes burning and his entire body shaking against Steve’s. “You’re safe. You hear me? Everything’s going to be okay.”

Billy shuts his eyes hard enough to make his head pound, swears he can still feel it hanging over him, watching and waiting. His hand stays on Steve’s arm and Steve’s hands stay on his head, moving only to carefully push through his curls, like he’s trying not to unfurl them. That, more than anything, makes it a little easier to catch his breath, though the panicked sounds don’t quite go away. Steve doesn’t seem too bothered by it, just helps him up and in one big blur he finds himself on one of the couches in Steve’s living room, white and pristine leather underneath his cheek. 

 

 

Everything after that is like trying to catch smoke with his fingers, things he thinks happen but are hard to decipher half asleep. He hears the sound of someone sweeping glass out in the entryway, sees Steve pacing back and forth in front of the phone. He swears he feels lips on his forehead at some point but it’s hard to tell, might just be wishful thinking, something nice to give to himself. The next time he wakes up he knows it must still be the middle of the night, the sky black outside but all of the lights in the house are on. It’s sort of comforting, like the pillow that’s under his head, the down blanket that’s been tucked in around him like his mom used to do. 

“Still there,” he rasps out, not sure which he’s referring to, Steve or the evil thing out in the ether. 

There’s the sound of quick rustling and movement before Steve’s face comes into view, his smile thin and tired but at least there. There’s a hand in his hair again but it’s more cautious, moving away to tap under Billy’s nose, where he guesses there’s blood from before. When he reaches up to wipe it away his hands are still trembling but it feels like it might be gone for now, that maybe the sky isn’t about to open up and devour him. 

“Should go,” he says, swallowing around a throat so sore it feels like he’s been chewing on glass, watching Steve’s face turn indignant, stern maybe. 

“You don’t have to,”’ Steve says from his spot on the floor. “My parents are out until tomorrow night. I think you just need to relax, try to get some sleep.”

In the haze of sleep, Billy wonders if Neil knows he didn’t come home, whether he’s got a beating to look forward to tomorrow. It doesn’t matter now though because the thought of going outside and seeing that monster in the sky keeps him glued to Harrington’s couch. Never mind the fact that it’s warm here, that he feels safe with Steve sat just a few feet away. It’s easy to close his eyes again and let sleep take him. Some of the tension unfurls in his body and one of his hands dangles off of the couch. He might be dreaming but he swears he can feel Harrington hold it.

 

 

In the morning Billy lingers under the heavy weight of the blankets for a little longer than he should. He knows he’s probably in deep shit for not coming home last night, for not taking Maxine to school this morning. But somehow being in Steve’s space makes it worth it, especially looking at the sleeping ball on the floor next to him. Steve must’ve slept there the entire night just to be close to him and that thought has a nervous feeling knocking around in his stomach.

He slowly moves the blankets, trying not to wake Steve up but the rustling seems to do it easily and soon Steve is sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. There’s something sweet about seeing Steve Harrington first thing in the morning, all sleepy eyes and frizzy hair. Part of Billy wants to reach out and touch it, smooth it down and wipe the sleep from Steve’s eyes. Instead he just stays still, tries to avoid his eyes because it feels like they’re burning holes in him, looking for answers.

“I know some people we can call,” Steve says, rubbing the side of his neck that he always does whenever he’s nervous. “I think you need to talk to someone. It’ll help.”

Billy shrinks back into the couch, thinking maybe if he concentrates hard enough he can sink all the way through them. Maybe it’s another fucking superpower he’s got locked away. His jaw tightens and he shakes his head, thinks of the look on Neil’s face when he asked him if there was anything wrong with him. 

_ Plenty _ . 

“No fucking way, Harrington,” he says, giving up on the idea of slipping through the cracks of Steve’s nice leather couch in favor of sitting up, blankets pooling around his waist. “I’m not talking to anybody about  _ shit _ , are you kidding me?  _ Hey, it’s me, you probably hate me but I just figured out I can destroy shit when my head is too fucked up _ ?”

“It won’t—Billy, it’s not gonna be like that, I swear,” Steve says, sitting up straight like he’s gearing up for something. He fucking should be. “We’ve  _ seen  _ this shit before. Something happened to you, don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to know it’s not just you?”

“Yeah, no, I don’t. I already fucking tried that and it didn’t take,” Billy spits, knows he’s running his mouth too much like always but this time it’s about something he needs to get a grip on. Neil’s a big  _ no no _ , the idea of him being connected to any of...whatever the fuck this is, it’s too much. “I’m out of here.”

“You can’t just go—you can’t just come here and then fucking leave,” Steve says, voice turning angry as he pushes the blankets away from him and stands up. He’s got one hand in his hair, practically tugging at it like he’s nervous. There’s no way he’s as nervous as Billy is. “You can’t drag me into all of your shit and then walk away.”

Billy remembers playing truth or dare as a kid, getting dared to lick his finger and put it in an electric socket. He can remember exactly how it had felt. That sickly buzz running all the way through him, the way it felt like it might never stop. This—it feels a lot like that, watching Steve stand up and get some extra height on him. He’s up in an instant but a foot or two away because he’s not going to let Steve Harrington see him fucking cower. 

“I’m sorry I came here and fucking wrecked your nice little night,” he says through his teeth, every word true, but sharp. The only way he can get them out. “Message fucking received, won’t happen again.”

Billy turns and heads towards the door, trying to keep the hurt from showing on his face. It doesn’t matter if there’s still a monster waiting for him, if the whole world turns to grey as soon as he leaves Harrington’s house. Nothing matters now anyway. He’s halfway to the door when he feels Steve grab a hold of his hand, his entire body seizing up like he’s about to be attacked. He can’t help flinching, can’t stop the panic from rising inside him as he looks down at Steve’s hand on his own.

“Please don’t leave,” Steve says, his hand not moving from Billy’s. Billy can feel his own start to shake, some kind of subconscious reaction to a touch he want anticipating. But Steve’s not Neil and his voice is softer now, less aggressive. “I didn’t mean to—I really don’t want you to go.”

_ I really don’t want you to go _ . That’s definitely a new one. Billy’s not sure anyone’s ever wanted him to stick around, not counting the lemmings at Hawkins High, begging for someone to tell them what to do. Not counting girls he’s half heartedly slept with, eager for a body next to theirs. Steve’s asking him to stay with no real motive in sight, not one Billy can suss out. 

“Can we just drop it? Just for a while?” Billy says finally, eyes still on their hands weaving together. He’s not sure what he’d do if he looked up now, maybe everything would turn sour all over again. He feels a small squeeze and sees it happen, hears Steve let out a long breath. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Steve is saying, like he’s happy that Billy’s not yanking himself away. “Sure, we can just—just stay a while, yeah?”

Billy makes himself look up then, makes himself nod because maybe what’s out there is infinitely worse than this. There are a lot of things worse than Steve’s hand in his, in the soft smile that greets him. It makes him feel like he’s made the right choice for once and, well, that might make it worth it. 


	8. Chapter 8

In the end they don’t mention it at all—the nosebleeds, the monster in the sky, the fact that Billy’s clearly not in his right mind. Instead they spend most of the afternoon on Steve’s couch watching television. It’s a comfortable kind of silence, much like the silence they’d shared at the quarry over cigarettes. There’s no obligation to talk or do much of anything at all except sit and watch episodes of  _ Cheers _ . 

 

Billy’s wrapped up in a blanket, sitting close enough that Steve can practically feel the rise and fall of his chest. That terrified look on his face has faded into something a lot more calm, even happy looking as Sam and Diane bicker back and forth on the screen. Steve tries to ignore the intense urge to reach out and hold his hand again, to feel their fingers entwining. It’s not something he’s felt in a while, not since Nancy but that was months ago. Back then he could just reach out and grab a hold of her hand easily but this—this is a different situation entirely.

 

It’s late afternoon when he calls Dustin. Billy’s half asleep on the couch, mouth slightly open and some soft, peaceful noises escaping him. He makes his way into the hall, walking lightly across the floorboards so he doesn’t disturb Billy. Unsurprisingly, Dustin answers the phone within three rings.

 

“Hey. It’s Steve,” he says, holding the phone away from his ear as Dustin starts talking loudly, asking him whether he’ll be coming to the arcade later. “No—no, I can’t make it.  _ Listen _ , I need to talk to you guys, to Jane.”

 

“She’ll be at the arcade later, I can—wait a minute, why do  _ you _ need to talk to Jane?” he asks, skepticism rising by the minute.

 

“It’s nothing, really it’s nothing at all. I just need to talk to her about something, it’s uh—about Hopper and Joyce,” Steve says quickly, trying to find an excuse to hide the truth.

 

“You know, we’re not  _ kids _ , we can handle it,” Dustin says, yelling something like  _ it’s some stupid secret, Steve’s keeping secrets _ . 

 

“Oh for Christ’s—Dustin, just swing by with the kids while I’m working tomorrow, alright? There’s free ice cream in it for you,” is what he settles on, hanging up to the sounds of Dustin and the other shitheads screeching in delight. 

 

When he comes back into the living room Billy’s folding the blanket into whatever the blanket version of hospital corners is, laying it over the couch. He watches him smooth down his jacket and thinks that next time—if there is one—he could give him an old sweatshirt of his dad’s. The picture it creates is tantalizing enough to distract him and he nearly misses Billy looking at him expectantly like he just missed something. 

 

“Sorry, what?” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, stepping back when Billy makes to move past him. He’s not forgetting that flinch any time soon, doesn’t want to be the one responsible for it. 

 

“Said I gotta run,” Billy says, pausing to look at the empty space where the lamps once were. He doesn’t look guilty, not that he should be, but kind of like he might be trying to tell himself they weren’t there in the first place. Then he’s got those blue eyes zeroed in on him, those intense eyebrows smooth for once. 

 

Steve’s an idiot, he’s been told it enough, he’s felt it enough. It’s never quite stopped him from doing the things he thought were right. Stepping closer to Billy feels right and so does putting his hand on the doorknob to stop him, a gentle block he knows Billy could plough right through. His free hand reaches up and tugs on that one perfect spiraled curl in the front, some stupid little move that he knows works when the corner of Billy’s mouth ticks up. 

 

He can’t seem to drag his eyes away from it—the perfect Cupid’s bow of his lips and the way his tongue darts out to wet them. Part of him wants to back up, put some space between them because it’s got to be something to do with the proximity that has him biting his own bottom lip. But he can’t bring himself to do that, not when Billy’s looking at him with big, bright eyes, something a little hopeful in them too. Then he’s too close to go back and he can practically feel the warmth of Billy’s mouth already. It’s only a few inches until their lips are pressed together, warm and more gentle than he ever imagined kissing Billy would be.

 

He backs them up against the door, pushing Billy against it insistently as he deepens the kiss. One hand comes up to rest on it next to Billy’s head, trying to stop himself from tangling it in his hair. Even though he’s got his tongue licking over Billy’s bottom lip, there’s still a few lines that feel strange to cross. But Billy doesn’t seem to have a problem with it at all, his hand hovering over Steve’s t-shirt before curling his hand in it and dragging Steve closer until their bodies are flush against each other.

 

It doesn’t feel like what he imagined kissing another man would feel like. He was imagining some kind of fight for dominance—tough lips smashing against his own. Kissing Billy is a lot more pleasant than that and not really dissimilar to kissing anyone else. Not at all like kissing Tommy when they were kids playing spin the bottle—or the when they were teenagers playing it again. Underneath his lips Billy seems to go still, more pliant and with every lick of Steve’s tongue he lets out a delicious sounding moan from deep in his throat.

 

When Steve finally pulls away it’s like looking at someone for the first time. None of the usual bullshit is there, it’s all been stripped away and all that’s left is Billy—bright eyed and breathing hard against his door. There’s no anger, no fear, just something unreadable in Billy’s expression that looks somewhat happy and surprised. His lips are kiss swollen and Steve swears he can still hear the ghost of a moan escape him.

 

“Be careful,” Steve says, a little awkward as he backs up to give Billy some space. “See you at work tomorrow?”

 

It takes a moment for Billy to reply, biting at his bottom lip and hesitantly making eye contact with Steve. “Yeah—tomorrow,” he says, straightening out his jacket and running a hand through his hair. “See ya later Harrington.”

 

And then Steve’s watching him leave, trying to keep his eyes fixed on his back instead of lower where they want to be. It’s an impossible task and for a split second he lets himself look, takes in the sight of Billy’s tight jeans hugging him perfectly as he makes his way towards the Camaro. Steve shuts the door quickly, leans against it and lets it all hit him at once—every single little feeling he’s been fighting against to no avail. He slides to the floor and holds his head in his hands, rubs at his eyes as if that’ll make it better, make it clearer somehow. 

  
  


“Hello?” Steve says as he picks up the phone. It’s a few hours later now and the sky is black outside his bedroom window. There’s a white light from the pool, one that Steve keeps on most nights—just in case.

 

“You said you were gonna call me after work yesterday. If you don’t want to go to Linda’s party tomorrow then just tell me, don’t avoid me like some kind of asshole,” Robin says, voice close up to the phone and hushed like someone else might be listening.

 

Steve closes his eyes and brings the phone over to the bed, falls down on it and keeps his eyes fixed to the window. “I’m sorry. Something came up,” he says, deliberately vague in a way that he knows will just piss Robin off more.

 

“Oh yeah?” she says, the sound of her shifting around coming through the telephone. “C’mon Steve, don’t leave me hanging.”

 

Steve debates telling her for a moment. They’re best friends, she wouldn’t judge him. But still, it feels like he’s making himself a little  _ too  _ vulnerable _.  _ In the end he skirts around the truth, gives Robin a little something to chew on.

 

“I was with Billy,” he says, closing his eyes and waiting for the inevitable gasp. It doesn’t come, there’s nothing but expectant silence, like she’s waiting for him to continue. “He came over last night. Think he must’ve had a fight with his dad or something. He—he spent the night…on the couch.”

 

Robin lets out a noise that’s halfway between a laugh and a squeal, something Steve can’t put his finger on. “Well—that’s a fucking surprise,” she says and Steve can almost hear her eyes rolling. “Did you braid each other’s hair? Snuggle up on the couch?”

 

“Fuck off,” Steve says despite the smile breaking out on his face. “It was—nice. In like, a really weird way. I think he just needs a friend y’know? Someone to look out for him.”

 

“No shit. Remember the quarry? He looked like he was gonna—”

 

“I remember,” Steve jumps in, trying to forget the image of Billy staring out into nothing. “I kissed him. We—I  _ kissed  _ him.”

 

Part of him wants Robin to be shocked. He wants her to be mad at him too. Anything’s better than the laugh he hears down the phone like she’d been expecting to hear him say something like that.

 

“Aren’t you like...surprised? I’m not—”

 

“You’re not what?  _ Gay _ ? You really expect me to believe that Steve,” she says, voice full of conviction like no matter what he says she already knows the truth. “I work with you. With both of you. It’s pretty fucking obvious there’s something else behind all the tension. Did he kiss you back?”

 

Steve debates telling her that they’ve done a lot more than just kiss but he’s not ready for what that means, what it says about him. “Yeah, he did,” he says, wrapping the phone cord around his finger tightly. “Then he just took off. I don’t know what I’m doing, he’s so fucked up and I—I don’t know if I can handle that.”

 

Robin’s quiet for a moment, like she’s taking time to really think of something helpful to say instead of some meaningless nicety. “You don’t have to handle that, that’s not your baggage to carry. Just don’t give him anymore okay? Don’t be an asshole.”

 

Steve thinks about practically shoving Billy out of his car, about how every single one of their interactions has been one-sided. The thought of being gentle with Billy is strange, doesn’t quite sit right with him. They’re not in a relationship. Steve doesn’t owe Billy anything and he definitely doesn’t have to reciprocate if Billy takes it upon himself to get him off. But there’s Robin telling him to be kind, and there’s the way Billy looked at him after the kiss, like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening.

 

“I gotta go,” he says, not wanting to dwell on any of these thoughts for a minute longer. “I’ll be at work tomorrow. See ya.”

 

Then he’s hanging up the phone and pulling the blankets up around his face, trying to stop thoughts of Billy from creeping in. It’s virtually impossible. When he closes his eyes there’s Billy on his knees, Billy sleeping on his couch, Billy licking his lips, Billy almost jumping off a cliff edge. All the images swirl around in his head like a kaleidoscope, making him wish he could have some kind of do over so that he could be kinder, less selfish.

 

Steve gets his opportunity only a couple of hours later, barely asleep when he hears the doorbell ring. There’s a sort of insistence to it, one that makes it easy for Steve to guess who it is, makes him rush down the stairs to whip the door open. 

 

Billy doesn’t fall through it like the first time and he doesn’t look terrified of anything, really. His nose is bleeding but it’s not the side from before, the skin around it a little angry looking. Like not much time passed after it happened to get Billy here. Like he’d rushed straight here, thought of Steve’s place before any other. The look on his face is tired and he’s not saying anything, so quiet that Steve doesn’t feel like pressing any questions on him. Even if they’re still there. 

 

_ Did you break something? Who did that to you? Where did you learn to kiss like that? _

 

Instead he reaches out to close his hand around Billy’s sleeve, a denim jacket he’s been seeing for a year only now it’s on someone he kisses. It’s on someone who can break things with their mind, who still sometimes looks like he’s expecting something good to come. Who he’s seen in so many perfect, fucked up, beautiful, terrifying ways. 

 

“C’mon,” is all Steve can say, fingers firm on Billy’s jacket as he closes the door and locks it for good measure. 

 

The climb up the stairs makes Billy hesitate but for such a short moment that Steve barely registers it, just a small hiccup in his steps that continues like normal. Getting him out of his boots and jacket is a little more stilted but Billy still isn’t talking, just staring at him when Steve sits him down and starts tugging his arms out of his sleeves. He looks young,  _ really  _ young like this, one of the only times Steve had remembered he’s actually older than Billy. His expression is wide fucking open, sad and sort of—fond. 

 

It doesn't take much to get Billy to lay down. Honestly, it’s almost like he’s been waiting for someone to give him permission and he looks more relaxed than Steve’s ever seen him. When Steve lays down he’s surprised by a couple of things. One is the way Billy curls up against him, presses his face into Steve’s shoulder like his favorite body pillow. Another is how important it makes Steve feel, like maybe he’s the only person to ever give this to Billy. Like maybe he’s the only person who’s done anything nice at all. 

 

_ I’m sorry  _ whispered against Steve’s skin all but confirms it but this time Steve’s the one who stays quiet. Doesn’t say  _ this might be the one thing I don’t want you to be sorry for _ . Hopes staying right there, finally letting himself run his fingers through those curls while Billy falls asleep, says it for him. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multi POVs from here on out.

When Billy wakes up the sun hasn’t even risen yet, the whole world seemingly still asleep. It’s not his watch beeping in his ear this time though. It’s Steve’s alarm clock, like he might’ve set it for Billy so he could get home in time. He can’t really remember much about getting there, mostly what happened before that. Neil’s suspicion and his anger, his head bouncing off the hallway, the scrape of his window frame on his hip as he scrambled right out of it. 

 

He has a bizarre urge to lift his shirt and check for a mark, like it’s somehow more interesting or more important than the one he just knows is on his face, the goose egg likely forming on the side of his head. He could do that but it would mean extricating himself from what’s happening now and—nothing in the fucking universe could be more important right then. 

 

Steve’s cradling him from behind; not just holding, but  _ cradling  _ him like some precious object, his arms wound tight around his waist even though the arm under them has to be pinched and asleep by now. The alarm clock is screeching at them and it takes everything in him to reach forward and turn it off, turning around and back into the embrace quicker than he’d like to admit. 

 

“Need to go,” he whispers into the dark, watches Steve’s face morph from irritation at the alarm to something else. Frustrated but still asleep, his eyebrows furrowing and arms tightening, a little grunt in response. 

 

He knows the feeling. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to think any harder about the glass shattering in Steve’s foyer or the stormcloud that keeps threatening to swallow him. He doesn’t want to think about his father and how much he hates him, how little his son means to him or what secrets he might be keeping. He doesn’t want to go anywhere that feels even a fraction less safe than here in this bed, next to this person, but that’s not the hand he’s dealt. Not the hand he’ll ever be dealt. 

 

“ _ Stay _ ,” Steve mumbles, eyes still squeezed shut but his body slowly waking up. It sounds a little vulnerable, like something he would only say in the quiet of the dark. Billy thinks about what it’d be like to hear that in the daytime, to see the look in Steve’s eye as he says it. He already spends too much time thinking about the things he can’t have, this is just another thing to add to the list.

 

“Gotta,” he replies, slowly peeling himself away from the safety of Steve’s arms.

 

Outside of the blankets and the warmth of Steve’s body it’s cold, makes him shiver a little as he fumbles around for his t-shirt in the floor. Getting dressed in the dark is easy, something he’s done so many times but with Steve it feels different. Almost like he’s being deliberately slow, dragging out the minutes until he walks out of the door. Steve’s eyes are open now. Billy can feel them on him, just watching in silence, like he can’t think of anything to say.

 

“Thanks, I guess,” he mumbles once he’s got his jacket and boots on.

 

Steve’s sitting up now, reaching over to turn the light on and pulling the blankets over his chest. It was easier in the dark. Now Steve can see all of his ugliness—the bruises, the blood he can feel crusting his nose. He’s half expecting Steve to turn it out again, repulsed at what he’s seeing but instead there’s some kind of sad look on his face. It’s the kind of look that Billy thinks Steve must give girls like Nancy and people he gives a shit about. It’s almost terrifying to be on the receiving end of it, like he could ever be someone Steve Harrington cares about.

 

“I’ll see you at work yeah?,” he says, rubbing some of the sleep out of his eyes and wincing at the pain on the side of his head.

 

“Billy—”

 

“ _ Don’t _ . You don’t have to say anything alright? Just leave it,” Billy says, turning away so he doesn’t have to see anymore of that look on his face.

 

There’s the creak of the bed, the sound of blankets falling to the floor and Steve’s feet on the worn carpet. Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, grasping at the denim, turning him around easily. Big brown eyes bore into him, searching for something in his expression but Billy knows better than to give anything away. He keeps his face neutral, doesn’t give Steve anything, averts his eyes. But then there’s a hand under his chin, Steve’s fingers digging into his skin a little, forcing him to look.

 

Billy can feel it in the pit of his stomach—fear and wanting smashing together, turning him into a raw nerve. He wants to tell Steve to stop, or at least beg him not to fuck around like this because it’s too much—the thought of having this and then losing it. There’s no time left though. Steve’s mouth on his is just as gentle and insistent as before. In no time he finds himself going soft, letting some of the tension out as he relaxes under Steve’s lips. This isn’t something he gets to have but it’s nice to get a little taste of it anyway, even if it’s just for a minute.

 

“You can come round whenever,” Steve says when he pulls away, eyes focused on Billy’s mouth. “If you want. Just to hang out and...whatever.”

 

Billy nods like it doesn’t mean anything. Like Steve has just offered him something measly instead of a reprieve from all the terrifying, lonely places he usually finds himself in. But he can’t acknowledge that. That would be showing his hand, letting Steve in on that part of him that just wants a safe space to exist in.

 

“Cool. Whatever.”

 

It sounds wrong coming out of his mouth but there’s nothing else to say.  _ Thank you  _ and  _ I’ll miss you  _ are there on the tip of his tongue but they’re weak words that don’t mean anything. He straightens up and takes a look back at Steve—at his sleepy eyes and the smattering of hair on his chest. He imagines what it’d be like to run his hands through it. His hands moving over soft skin, feeling the hard muscle underneath, the beating of Steve’s heart.

 

“See you at work later,” he says when he finally forces himself to leave.

 

Outside it’s foggy and he can’t see much more than a few meters in front of himself. The risk of hitting something doesn’t make him slow down. He revs the engine, drums his fingers on the leather of steering wheel, tries to keep time to a song on the radio. It’s almost comforting to not see the sky. This way there’s no chance of seeing that  _ thing _ with a thick cloud of fog over his head. When he gets to Cherry Road he slows down to a snail's pace, rolling the car up to the house and closing the door silently. It’s remarkably easy to sneak back into the house this early. He thinks that maybe somebody is cutting him some slack when his bedroom window makes almost no noise when he slides it open.

 

In his bed with the covers pulled high over his head, other things come easy too. Like the memory of Steve holding him in the morning, nuzzling up against him sleepily. Then there’s the ghost of his lips— soft and warm, almost loving. Sleep is another easy thing he falls into, dreamless and restful like it almost never is.

 

He feels like he might be catching up to his insurmountable sleep debt when he wakes up without a crick in his neck or some half-memory grinding into his head. In reality he’s only gotten four hours of sleep if the alarm clock is right, but it doesn’t seem to be hitting him as hard as usual. He pulls out his Scoops uniform and folds it under his arm as he ventures into the living room, stopping short when he sees—

 

Nothing at all. Neil isn’t there, that thundercloud of scorn in the armchair telling him he’s slept too long or that he’s missed breakfast. Susan is puttering around the kitchen and stacking plates, craning her neck out to ask him something like  _ you want me to fire something up?  _ but Billy’s so distracted by the complete lack of  _ fear _ in the house that he just shakes his head despite the grumble of his stomach. He looks around again and not even Max is around, eyebrows furrowing in a way Susan must catch. 

 

“That Harrington boy already picked her and her friends up, some kind of outing and then the arcade,” she says, turning back to the kitchen counter, opening the cupboards and shoving some tacky floral plates inside. “Neil had extra work things to check in on at the office, won’t be back until later tonight. You’re sure you don’t want me to fix you something before you go to work?”

 

Billy just shakes his head again, no Neil over his shoulder to say  _ use your manners _ . Instead he leaves as quickly as he can and shows up to the mall half an hour early, something he doesn’t think he’s ever accomplished before. He uses that time to smoke as many cigarettes as possible, wondering if maybe he’s still dreaming. Maybe that kiss had been a dream too, Steve offering his home and something bigger like it was nothing. 

 

He’s still thinking about it when he walks into Scoops, shoving a sailor’s hat on his head and barely noticing Robin’s greeting. She’s smiling at him in a way that makes him distantly suspicious, like there’s something on his face giving him away, and he has to look at himself in the ice cream display glass to make sure there isn’t. 

 

Steve’s there too, hand making some aborted gesture before he’s serving a group of kids. His attention seems to be elsewhere though, neck craning every few minutes like he can see something outside of the glass doors. Or like he’s expecting something.

 

—

 

After Billy had left that morning Steve had been restless. There had been a moment of trying to go back to sleep, trying to forget about what had driven him to let Billy share his bed for the night. Not worth thinking about. That’s what he ultimately decided, shoving the blankets off the bed. He’d waited a few hours before calling Dustin and hearing the inevitable excitement in his voice at the prospect of being taken to The Palace. 

 

It was all a ploy of course. The guilt of it made him feel a little nervous when Jane and Mike slid into the backseat of his car. He tried not to make eye contact with her, tried to keep his mind focused on the overly loud pop music and not the images in his head. Nosebleeds. Smashing glass. Every window in his car breaking at the exact same time. The way Billy had moaned softly under his mouth.

 

Early mornings at the arcade were just as jarring as peak time. Even without the hordes of children it was still all flashing lights and manic voices coming out of machines, the sound of coins against metal. An hour. That’s how long he’d managed to stand it before he offered up something better—Starcourt Mall. It wasn’t often he’d let them see him at work and having to explain his connection to a group of teenagers wasn’t exactly at the top of his to-do list.

 

Getting them there was easy. He’d given them ten dollars, told them to come by Scoops in an hour for free ice cream and sent them on their way. Now he’s watching Billy walk in, less tired looking than he did just a few hours ago. It’s hard not to stare, even harder to focus his attention on the group of children in front of him when he knows what’s going to happen any minute.

 

_ You’re doing the right thing _ , he thinks to himself as he finishes up a cone.  _ This is the only way you’ll know for sure _ . Billy’s already tying his apron around his waist and getting stuck in to the job, focusing intently on stocking up the Neapolitan when the bell on the door chimes softly.

 

—

 

Billy looks up from his spot, hunched halfway into the freezer with a drum of ice cream in his hands that weighs about as much as a fucking anvil and nearly drops it wrong. The brats are here, every single one of them. He can see the grin on Max’s face from here and heaves a put upon sigh, straightening up and out of the display before a few things click. 

 

_ That Harrington boy already picked her and her friends up, some kind of outing and then the arcade.  _

 

Was Steve just being a dick? He worked here too, so maybe not. Did Steve think some good old fashioned shit talking from his sister would—what? Distract him, make him feel better? He looks at Steve to get an answer but all he gets is the  _ customer service  _ face he’s so good at, big puppy dog eyes and bright smile, the kind that spells absolute trouble with all the kids here. 

 

“Hello, brother of mine,” Max coos, false innocent painted all over her face, hands clasped together by her cheek. “We were promised free ice cream.”

 

To his credit Billy doesn’t flip her off in front of the mothers and their children seated into the corner. Instead he gestures for Steve to take over and parks himself at the register, even going so far as to pull a nearby stool out to ensure absolute minimum effort through the whole fucking thing. There’s  _ no way _ he’s scooping ice cream and smiling at the kid with a trucker hat and a headset on. Absolutely  _ no way _ . 

 

“Hey, man,” Lucas says, and for him Billy spares a non-antagonizing look, shaking hands with him because Sinclair really likes that kind of shit. He’s a good kid and at the very least him and Max have been careful, Neil never within sight. It’s something he was never quite capable of doing himself. “This is Jane, don’t think you’ve met her. She’s Hopper’s...daughter.”

 

Billy turns his attention to a girl with a mop of curly hair on her head and an ice cream cone in her hand, piled ridiculously high thanks to Steve. She’s eating it like it’s the greatest thing in the world, doesn’t notice Lucas introducing her until he’s nudging at her with an elbow. 

 

“Billy,” she says, giving a proud little smile like she’s remembering from Max telling her or something. It’s weird but fine, fine enough that Billy’s accepting an awkward handshake from her and—

 

**_Mother_ ** _. No, a picture of his mother, just the Polaroid he’s always had. It’s being shoved into his hands and someone is screaming at him but it’s not Neil. It’s a man with white hair and he seems determined that Billy repeat his words so he does. He always does.  _ **_Mother_ ** _.  _

 

_ A grey, concrete room with nothing in it. Nothing but a metal frame bed and a—broken side table. The legs are repaired with gaff tape because— _

 

_ He broke it. Shattered it and they made him fix it, didn’t get him a new one like they did for—she had dark hair and dark skin. She was quiet and they liked her better.  _

 

_ Lightning strikes through his brain. There are pads attached to his head, all over his head in the spots they shaved, always have to shave because he never lets them get closer than that. Bad things happen when they try to cut all of his hair off, last time— _

 

He’s backing up quicker than he can ever remember moving, knocking over receipt rolls and high stacks of paper sailor hats for kids who come in, waffle cone sleeves. His head has  _ never  _ felt like this, like someone cracked his skull and started pulling out handfuls of his brain. He doubles over and pukes, doesn’t miss Robin’s shoes and she’s yelling, yelling and he’s flinching, absurdly scared that she’s mad at him. 

 

—

 

One minute everything is normal. The kids are in front of him, smiling high on sugar. The next Jane’s face is unreadable and there’s a yellow mess on the floor. There’s yelling, mostly from Robin but he can hear Dustin and Mike too although he thinks that he’s probably trying to get Jane’s attention. It’s no use. She’s too fixated on Billy to even notice.

 

“ _ Billy _ ,” she says, her focus never wavering. It reminds Steve of that look in her eyes when he’d seen her for the first time—like she’s reuniting with something she’d thought she’d lost forever. “Your name is  _ Billy _ .”

 

It’s cryptic in the way that almost everything used to be with Jane, before Hopper had taken her in. Billy’s looking back like he doesn’t understand a single word she’s saying, not even his name. He’s holding his head like there’s something going on inside it, trying to hold back the tears but not doing a very good job of it. Bringing Jane here was a bad idea. The most obvious of bad ideas but he’s always been like this—too stupid to think through the consequences. 

 

“These shoes were forty dollars,” Robin screeches, face twisted up in disgust. “I saved for two months to buy these Hargrove.”

 

Steve wants to yell back at her and that’s odd—he’s never wanted to yell at Robin, they’ve never had so much as a disagreement. He doesn’t stop to question the feeling, just jumps into action and moves in front of Billy. He gets a grip on his work shirt, doesn’t miss the flinch as he yanks Billy towards the store room. There’s noise behind him, the kids shouting after him but he tries to block it out, tries to focus on the important thing right in front of him. 

 

“Look at me,” he says once he’s got Billy sat in a chair. 

 

There’s no response, just Billy’s palms pushing firmly against his own forehead and an agonising sob that tugs at some part of Steve he didn’t know existed anymore. It’s no use trying to reason with him and whatever war is playing out in his head so he does the next best thing, pulls Billy’s hands away from his head and tilts his chin up.

 

“Look at me. You’re safe. You’re at work. You’re  _ safe _ .”

 

—

 

Billy thinks it’s funny, or maybe he would if his head were attached. It looks like they’re shaking hands, like they’re shaking both hands at the same time and it’s funny. It’s funny until he realizes why they look that way, that he’s shaking hard enough to make it look like that. Sight and sound come back to him at an agonizingly slow pace; the sound of himself gasping for air, Steve’s face etched in concern, Steve’s voice low and soothing, the way he doesn’t flinch once Steve moves his face up. 

 

“H-have to g-get out,” he pleads, fingers gripping Steve’s hard, probably too hard. He can’t help it, somebody has to listen to him. He can already picture the glass door and the glass display cases, the metal chairs and tables. What he might do to them, what he can do to them because a man with white hair—

 

“Please,  _ please,  _ **_please_ ** **.** ”

 

—

 

The terror in Billy’s voice almost confirms Steve’s suspicions. That Billy was a part of that place, that he’s somehow connected to Jane. There’s no time to think on it so he stores it away for later, tries to keep his scattered thoughts focused on the emergency in front of him. His hands hurt but he’s not about to tell Billy to stop, to let go of the only thing keeping him together.

 

“I’ll drive,” he says, trying to keep Billy’s hands still. “Need to tell Robin and then I’ll be back. We’ll go through the back, you won’t need to see anyone.”

 

Then he’s pulling his hands away, more gentle than he’s ever been with Billy, or anyone who wasn’t Nancy for that matter. It’s like navigating his way around a frightened animal, trying to avoid him bolting any minute. It feels inevitable, especially given the way Billy curls in on himself as soon as Steve’s hands aren’t there anymore. Steve tells himself that he’s only sorting this out because he started it. He doesn’t care much about Billy. They’re barely even friends.

 

Back out on the shop floor, Robin’s doing a great job of pretending nothing happened to the customers. There’s a whole wad of blue roll on the floor, sticky and wet with Billy’s vomit. Robin’s formerly white sneakers are now tinged with yellow. The kids are nowhere to be found and that’s a small blessing.

 

“Is he alright?” Robin asks after she’s served a group of teenagers. “I don’t really—the shoes aren’t a big deal, I just...hope he’s alright?”

 

“I’m taking him home. He’s sick. I’m gonna need you to drive my car to Billy’s after your shift. I’ll owe you one,” he says, trying to skirt the truth and that look in Robin’s eyes that says  _ don’t lie to me Steve _ .

 

“Okay,” she says without a fuss. “But you’re giving me a ride home  _ and  _ you’re picking me up for my shift tomorrow.”

 

Steve agrees, leans forward to squeeze her shoulder before making his way back to Billy. He hasn’t really moved, except his hands are back at his head and he’s more terrified looking. When he clocks Steve there’s an almost palpable relief, like he was expecting to be abandoned in the back office of Scoops.

 

“Come on, I’m gonna drive you home.”

 

—

 

Billy doesn’t remember getting out of the mall but he does register getting into the Camaro, except he’s in the wrong seat. When he looks over at the driver it’s—Steve. The film reel winds back as quick as lightning and he’s replaying everything in double time, the trees and houses zooming past the window. 

 

A girl with brown, curly hair. A girl with a number. He had a number. He has a number. 

 

He hears himself say it but he can’t hear it, like censoring a swear word on the radio. Jumbled and staticky, the sound of something and nothing. 

 

Steve’s talking to him and he’s out of the Camaro now, standing in the sun room in front of his front door. Steve’s hands are moving toward him and he feels the weight of his car keys pushed into his pocket, only he doesn’t have a house key. Neil won’t give him one and Steve must realize that, or have realized it. 

 

_ Key _ , he’s saying. He goes up on his toes, on shaky legs and finds the hide away key, hands it over with shaky fingers. 

 

—

  
  


That’s all Steve can think about. Billy being locked up in that place with Jane and god knows how many other people. No names, no Billy, just a number tattooed on a wrist. It’s difficult not to fixate on it but somehow he manages to get the front door open, guiding Billy through it like he’s made of glass.

 

It’s a modest house, but most are compared to his. There’s a few photo frames scattered about on the shelves. Pictures of people he assumes Billy is related to; a happy couple smiling, Max on a sunny beach that must be California. There’s not a single photograph of Billy. It’s almost like he doesn’t exist, like he’s not part of this family at all.

 

“Where’s your room?” he asks, still holding onto Billy when all of his natural instincts are telling him to let go. “I think you gotta lay down.”

 

—

 

Billy nods but it’s a dazed little movement, his shoulder knocking into the hallway as he leads them toward his room. He wonders if it’s just going to be this from now on, him getting slammed in his skull by memories or visions that make him think he’s going crazy, Steve lugging him around like a suitcase full of bricks. There’s guilt there but he’s too anxious to really process it, thinks maybe he can let Steve off the hook, just has to—get to the bed first. Lay down, sleep everything off. 

 

When they walk in he extracts himself from Steve’s hold, landing on his bed face first and curling up slowly. He’s so fucking tired—all the time and for a very long time, but it’s worse lately. He’s burnt out every day, turned inside out, sick like he’s been out in the sun too long. 

 

“Don’t have to stay,” he says, voice muffled against the mattress, body curling up tighter every second. 

 

—

 

Steve considers the offer for a moment. Just leaving like nothing happened, like Billy doesn’t mean anything to him. Like it or not, there’s a part of him now that cares what happens to Billy, what happened too. He can’t just walk away from that, even if it would be easier than what he’s about to do.

 

“I—want to. I want to stay,” he says, taking off his shoes and pushing them under Billy’s bed. “Unless you don’t want me to? I can leave.”

 

He hadn’t really considered whether or not Billy actually wanted him here or not.  _ You don’t have to stay  _ could just be Billy’s way of avoiding having to kick him out. But he’s shaking his head like he doesn’t want Steve to walk away and that solidifies it enough in Steve’s head.

 

The mattress creaks under his weight. It’s old and falling apart like everything else in Billy’s room. There’s a few personal effects scattered around the room—a Metallica poster, some bottles of aftershave, a stereo resting precariously on a makeshift stand. Everything looks worn, like it’s taken as many beatings as Billy has through the years. Even the blanket that Steve pulls over Billy’s body is tattered and torn.

 

“Just try and relax. Don’t have to sleep if you can’t do it, just relax,” he says, too on edge to actually put his arms around Billy. 

 

—

 

Billy nods a bit miserably, staring nowhere in particular for a minute. He lets Steve throw his blanket over him but it doesn’t give him much reprieve, just reminds him that he doesn’t like being here at all. He’d rather be at Steve’s even if he was being a stubborn dick about it, he’d rather have Steve’s hands on his face, their lips touching again. 

 

Everything was about to be okay. He thought it was going to just...even out. 

 

“I’m—“

 

_ Not sure what’s wrong with me. Having a hard time thinking about anything. Scared, really scared.  _

 

Whatever he was about to say gets cut short by the sound of old metal, the sound of a loud engine, the sound of his father’s truck. Susan was wrong and Neil’s home and he can’t remember where Steve parked, if he’d had the presence of mind to tell him to park down the block. His eyes focus on Steve in an instant, weary and anxious at once. 

 

“The closet—please, just—you have to hide.”

 

—

 

Steve screws his face up in confusion, pulling away a few inches to register the look on Billy’s face. He’s not fucking around, not judging by the palpable fear in the room. The sound of the front door slamming closed is what gets him out of the bed and taking Billy’s warning seriously. 

 

“Who is that? Is that your dad?” he says once he’s stood up, closet door half open.

 

—

 

Billy doesn’t say a single word, knows he can’t. There are consequences to slip ups and he knows that too, doesn’t want to think of what would happen if Neil found Steve here. He manages to nod before he shuts the door on Steve, figures that’ll have to be enough right now. The closet door slides closed silently after years of practice with Neil and then speak of the fucking devil. 

 

“What are you doing home and where’s the Camaro, William?” Neil says, no warning before he’s stepping into the bedroom, looking Billy over in his uniform like he’s examining an uninteresting bug. “Did you skip out on work? Go find some whore to waste time with, or  _ worse _ ?”

 

Billy lets the insults slide right off of him, even if he knows they’re just burrowing down inside for later. That’s usually how it works, pretending until it comes out or he—breaks something, apparently. 

 

“No, sir,” he responds quickly, feeling too vulnerable in his stupid work uniform, too much his own age. “I got sick at work and got a ride home, I didn’t—think about the car.”

 

Neil’s closer in the snap of a finger, his hand holding Billy’s jaw in place as he peers at him, fingers digging in hard. Billy makes a sound of discomfort and gets knocked into the bookshelf for his mistake, clamming right the fuck up. 

 

“Seems to be a running problem of yours, not  _ thinking _ ,” Neil grits out, checking Billy’s face for something Billy doesn’t know. “You been asking anybody else the questions you were asking me? All that nonsense? I can’t hear you, William.”

 

—

 

Listening to everything go down from the closet feels like having a front row seat to everything that Billy tries to hide. All of his bravado is stripped back, leaving nothing but a scared teenager in its wake. There’s just enough of a gap in the slats that Steve can make out the waist of another man—Billy’s father, Neil. Even if he can’t exactly see what’s happening, hearing is enough for his imagination to kick in.

 

The sound of Billy hitting the bookshelf has his own fists clenching. It wasn’t so long ago that it was him grabbing a hold of Billy and knocking him down. Now the thought of someone else doing it is enough to have him grinding his teeth, his breath coming shallow as he strains to hear Billy’s response. There’s just a meek, strained noise— _ nuh uh _ .

 

“You keep running your mouth and see what happens,” Neil says. Steve tries to picture the happy, smiling man from the photographs in the living room. Tries to imagine  _ that  _ man holding Billy against the shelf, digging into him with fists and words. “See what happens if you lose this job too.”

 

—

 

“Yes, sir,” Billy replies, as steady as he can make it, as loud as he can make it with Neil’s hand still gripping his jaw. 

 

The silence that follows is somehow worse than Neil tearing into him. At least when Neil is screaming at him it’s because he’s paying  _ attention  _ to Billy, but this? The quiet that precedes his head getting bounced off of the wall, the sound of Neil leaving with nothing else to say? It’s worse. It’s so much worse. 

 

He waits to hear Neil settling into the living room before he lets himself slip down to the floor, legs splayed out in front of him in stupid blue shorts. He’s about a hair’s breadth away from really freaking out so he places his hands over his face to cover it, uses the muffling effect to make himself just fucking  _ breathe.  _ It’s ragged and panting but it’s all he can do to not scream, his face on fire with humiliation and hurt on top of having his brain scrambled over a handshake with some girl he’s never seen before. 

 

Even if he  _ has  _ seen her before. 

 

—

 

Steve waits a moment, listens to sound of Billy breathing. Deep, exaggerated breathes, like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. Steve knows what they’re like now. The weight of a demogorgon crushing his chest, sending him spinning to somewhere dark and cold and upside down. He’s sure that other people get them too—Will, Jane, maybe even Nancy although she’s never told them. It should feel a little out of character to hear Billy have one, but the past few weeks have been illuminating to say the least.

 

He pushes the closet door open slowly, almost silently. Somehow he manages to make it to Billy without him noticing until the last minute, crouches down to get on his level. There are a few red finger marks on Billy’s jaw, ones that have his own hand reaching out to run his fingers over them gently. He’s not surprised when Billy flinches away momentarily, hesitates for a moment before relaxing a little.

 

“You’re alright,” he says in lieu of anything meaningful. “I mean—you’re gonna be alright.”

 

—

 

“How?” Billy asks, his voice low and quiet, all too aware of the devil in the other room. “ _ How? _ ”

 

Steve’s hand on his face is a comfort, one that hadn’t existed before that first time at the quarry. Not for a long time, not for over a decade. Except now things feel muddled, the half memory of a man with white hair pointing to a picture of his mother. Making him say it over and over like he was being tested. 

 

His face finally crumples up into a mixture of grief and exhaustion and rests heavy in Steve’s hand, his eyes looking down at nothing in particular. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t know if he wants to be anywhere at all. The thought of that terrible night at the quarry, the one that made him swear off partying edges him back from the idea, fear swamping everything else. He tries to think of what had happened after, Steve watching him every night from the Beemer, wonders if he looked then like he does now. 

 

—

 

The problem with meaningless pleasantries is having to back them up. It’s easy to say that everything will be okay, that it’ll all work out in the end. Being called out on it leaves Steve speechless for a minute. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know if anything will ever be okay. For all he knows the upside down could take over, they could all be dead tomorrow.

 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, his hand more gentle than Billy’s face than he can ever remember being. Like he’s holding something that could break easily. Ironic really, given that Billy is always the most likely to break things. “We can leave. You can come with me.”

 

—

 

Billy shakes his head slowly, careful not to jostle Steve’s hand. It makes his face twist up worse, knowing the Beemer isn’t far away, that there’s some fantasy world where he could just climb out the window. It isn’t here, not with Neil so close. 

 

“Be worse if I leave and he figures it out,” he whispers, finally looking up from the ground, from whatever patch of carpet he was trying to bore a hole through. “Can you stay a minute? Just—a minute?”

 

—

 

Having Billy’s dad right outside the door doesn’t exactly put Steve’s mind at ease but he shuffles a little closer anyway. His hand stays on Billy’s chin but with the other he pulls Billy closer. This is the only thing he can offer—a shitty hug on Billy’s bedroom floor with his dad mere feet away.

 

His back is up against the wall and Billy’s weight keeps him there as he relaxes against Steve’s body. It feels too intimate—more so than kissing, or anything else they’ve done up to now. Sitting on the floor, with Billy going practically limp in his arms, feels like something else entirely. Like this is just something they do now, something they fall into easily. Like they were never enemies at all.

 

“Sorry,” he says into Billy’s hair. “I’m really sorry. About everything.”

 

—

 

Billy nods and tugs his arms a little closer to his chest, his head leaning on Steve’s. A month ago and he wouldn’t have believed him, wouldn’t have believed anyone if they’d say that. Maybe Kelly, but it’s not the time to think about him, probably won’t ever be. He’s got this right now, someone who’s body fits against his just right, someone who might want him. 

 

He lifts his head when he realizes he has to make sure, lets Steve’s fingers slip on his chin before he moves his hand up to keep them there, looking up at him like he’s asking a question. The question moves to Steve’s lips and then his eyes, a ping pong match that finally ends when he leans forward. The kiss is like the one he’d gotten at Steve’s door, hungry and slow. 

 

Now he’s sure. 

 

—


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve meets Jane and learns some things.

Sneaking out of Billy’s window would be funny in any other circumstances. Memories of Nancy’s roof, how his feet would always slip and he’d ask himself if it was all worth it. Turns out it probably wasn’t. Luckily Billy’s house is only one storey, no chance of falling to his death.

 

A few hours later and he’s talking to Robin, asking her about Billy’s car. Every so often his eyes start to droop closed, fatigue settling into his body as he lays on his bed.

 

“I know you don’t care, but he really did ruin my

shoes,” she says, huffing. Steve can almost see her with her arms crossed over her chest.

 

“It wasn’t his fault. He’s sick, some kind of virus I think.” It’s remarkably easy to lie, even to Robin. “I’m sure if you just put them in the wash the stain will come out.”

 

“Yeah, yeah whatever. Anyway, I dropped his car off down the street like you asked. Had to walk all the way home too. I’m serious, you’re picking me up tomorrow,” she says, mocking anger.

 

“I gotta go,” Steve says, stifling a yawn. He doesn’t  _ have  _ to go but it’s easier than saying what he really wants to— _ I think Billy is an experiment and I think I like him _ . “I’ll pick you up at two tomorrow. Promise.”

 

Sleep doesn’t come very easy—fraught with dreams of Hawkins Lab and Billy being trapped there along with Jane and who knows how many others. In the morning he wants to call Billy, decides it’s probably not worth the risk of his dad picking up the phone. For a while he tries to distract himself with TV but it’s pointless. Everything reminds him of Billy, gets him thinking about how Jane must be feeling too. He’s spent all night fixated on Billy that he hadn’t even stopped to consider the fact that Jane recognised him.

 

That’s what gets him in his car and speeding towards Hopper’s cabin. It’s early and the roads are empty. He’s not sure if Jane will even be there but he has to try, has to talk to someone who will help him figure out this entire mess. The fact that he has to lean on a teenager for information makes him feel a little uncomfortable. But Jane’s not a regular teenager after all, and she’s seen more than any of them have combined.

 

When he gets there Hopper’s truck is missing. Part of him is thankful that he won’t be there to tell him to get lost. The other part of him thinks Jane is probably gone too and the entire drive out here was pointless. Regardless, he knocks gently on the door and says. “It’s Steve. Harrington, Steve Harrington.”

 

I’m —

 

Several locks slide out of their places and the door eases open, though no one is standing directly in front of it. Jane is a few feet away from it, a large glass of chocolate milk in her hand as she sits on the couch, her eyes glued to the television. She tilts her head in a short jerk once, twice, three times until the channel changes to cartoons. Satisfied with her choice, she finally looks up at Steve. 

 

“Chocolate milk first, then questions,” she says, patting the spot next to her before setting her glass down and standing up. She doesn’t move to greet Steve but wanders into the kitchen instead, stirring chocolate syrup into a tall glass and bringing it out to set next to her own. “Sugar’s good, makes you happy.”

 

—

 

Steve takes the glass, doesn’t argue with her even if the thought of sticky sweet chocolate milk makes him feel a little queasy. He’s never spent time alone with Jane, or much time with her at all outside of interactions with the party. Being sat on the couch next to her is a little unnerving, drinking and watching cartoons like it’s normal. He takes a long, exaggerated gulp for her benefit and wipes the excess from his mouth.

 

“That’s delicious,” he says, the sickly taste of Hershey’s attacking his taste buds. “Hop at work already?”

 

—

 

“Yes, working. He’ll be back at six four five,” Jane says, nodding and criss crossing her legs, her knee bumping against Steve and staying there. “Dustin’s mom— _ Claudia  _ is coming to get me at noon. She’s teaching me how to knit sweaters, the cabin gets cold in the winter.”

 

She smiles to herself at the idea, eyes fixed on a cat and a mouse tricking each other.  _ Tom and Jerry _ , that’s what Mike said. She likes watching it most of the time, even if it makes her uncomfortable sometimes when the cat gets hurt. Even if it’s make believe. 

 

“Billy?”

 

—

 

Steve holds the glass tightly in his hands, takes another sip for good measure. It’s a comforting taste, familiar too, reminds him of a simpler time. He nods but Jane is too focused on the TV to see him.

 

“Yeah, Billy. He uh—he got a little freaked out yesterday huh?” he says, not really a question as much as a way to start the conversation. 

 

—

 

“He remembered, I made him remember. I didn’t mean to,” Jane says, turning to face Steve, guilt painted across her face. “I didn’t remember either until we touched. There are a lot of  _ blank spots  _ for me still or things I know I’m not  _ supposed  _ to remember. But I remember Billy and now I think he remembers me.”

 

She drains her glass and hopes Hopper’s advice is true, that chocolate really does make you happy. This isn’t going to be happy so she’ll need some help. She cared about Billy once and Steve does now, she can feel it. Even if she couldn’t she can  _ see  _ it. 

 

“He was very nice, quiet and nice and didn’t make any trouble. Tried to be nice to all the men in coats too, like he couldn’t help it. For a while.”

 

—

 

Steve shifts on the couch, keeps the glass in his hands to keep them occupied. Looking at Jane now is like looking at someone completely different. Older, world weary, like she’s seen too much too young.

 

“We don’t have to—you don’t have to talk about it if it makes you feel...bad. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you he was gonna be there. But I had to know, I need to know what he is,” he says, too ashamed to meet her eyes. She’s a child and he manipulated her into meeting Billy for his own selfish curiosity, because  _ he  _ needed to know, because he still does.

 

—

 

Jane’s hand moves slowly forward to find one of Steve’s, her eyes on the way his completely dwarfs hers for a moment. Billy’s had done that too and that’s something she remembers only now, so many things that only surface once they’re triggered. She wonders if the new memories are ever going to stop or if every small touch, every familiar smell will bring her back to something else. 

 

“I forgive you, Steve,” she says, her words measured like it’s something she’s been practicing. Hop always says that  _ it’s okay  _ means you’re saying what they did wrong is okay, that it’s better to try and forgive instead. “Billy doesn’t make me feel bad. He was born there and he was older when I first remember the lab. He was...four. He had really big, curly hair until he left and nobody could ever get close enough to cut all of it off. He told me it made him feel powerful, that the longer it got the less they could hurt him. Like he could prove it that way, but they did. Hurt him.”

 

—

 

The thought of any child being trapped in that place is enough to enrage Steve. But the thought of Billy being there, being born there, it settles somewhere inside of Steve, next to all of the anger and sadness he keeps under wraps. He could spend hours analysing why he cares, how they went from enemies to whatever they are now. All that matters now is that he does care.

 

“Who hurt him? Is he—like you? Does he have a number?”

 

—

 

“Papa hurt him, all the time. The men in the coats too. They put things on his head and they could only shave the spots for them—they got too scared after a while to try,” Jane said, staring off somewhere to the side of Steve, new memories adding and piling up like the comics the boys brought her sometimes. “But they still hurt him. Broke bones and cut him. Papa said they were looking for reactions, that being angry or scared made it easier. Except Billy was always scared. He was zero zero nine, but that’s  _ not  _ his name.”

 

—

 

There are so many questions Steve wants to ask. Ones that Jane won’t know the answer to. Some are probably unanswerable by anyone—like if Billy was born in the lab then how did he get to California. But Jane doesn’t look distressed by the conversation, just a little sad and that’s what pushes him to keep going.

 

“Do you remember him leaving?” he asks, trying to keep his voice calm in the wake of everything she’s telling him. “And  _ Papa _ . Was he Billy’s papa too?”

 

—

 

Jane nods to both of Steve’s questions, a look on her face even further off than before. She jerks her head and the television clicks off, something wrong about watching something meant for children when what she’s about to say shouldn’t have happened to one. Another thing to add to that list. 

 

“Men in coats were talking to each other during sleep cycle and Billy got out. He was always very, very quiet when they were around,” she says slowly, frowning at the remaining static on the screen, searching it like she might find something. “He waved in all of our door windows but nobody went with him, I didn’t go with him. Papa stopped him, our Papa.”

 

She swallows hard and gives the screen a few more seconds before she locks eyes with Steve, squeezing onto his hand. 

 

“He was scared—Papa said he’d hurt all of us if Billy left. He started to ask the men to go get us and Billy—he killed them. He killed a few of them and they were  _ everywhere  _ and everything started breaking apart. The windows and the carts and the  _ men _ like their heads and their arms weren’t  _ there  _ anymore. But he didn’t hurt Papa, he couldn’t. He let Papa pick him up even though he wasn’t little, he was one th—thirteen. Like I am.”

 

—

 

_ I don’t know what happened to your windows _ .

 

That was what Billy had said at the quarry. In all fairness he’d looked just as shocked as Steve when it had happened. He didn’t look like someone who was used to breaking things like that. And he definitely didn’t look like someone who had broken  _ people _ . Surely Billy would remember something as traumatic as that.

 

It doesn’t occur to Steve to feel nervous until Jane’s words truly sink in.  _ Their heads and arms weren’t there anymore _ . He pictures the shards of glass surrounding his car, covering all the seats. That could’ve easily been him, smashed into pieces by Billy’s mind. The rational part of his brain tries to tell himself that Billy wouldn’t do that to him, that Billy wouldn’t hurt him. But they barely know each other and Billy put him in the hospital last year. Billy almost broke him once.

 

“How did he—what else did he do?”

 

—

 

“Like this.”

 

Jane slips her hand out of Steve’s and curls both of her hands into slow fists, shaking them like there’s too much behind them. After a second or two her fists unfurl with her fingers taut and spread out, making her think of the gate, how hard it had been to close it. 

 

“He stopped talking. He was quiet before but he just stopped and they said he was defective. One of the men who didn’t get hurt that night got— _ appointed _ ?,” she says, looking at Steve for confirmation of the word, her frown settling some when she sees she’s right. “He got appointed to him, a man with a mustache and eyes that didn’t have anything in them. Papa wanted him to be in trouble for letting Billy out, made him watch Billy. He looked even more scared all the time and we could all hear him screaming from down the hall. They scrambled his brain up and gave him memories to have—mama, the beach, normal. I don’t know how long it took but when he left he didn’t—recognize anybody. Nobody there, the man said  _ brain dead _ . I forgot about him.”

 

—

 

A few years ago all he had to worry about was whether or not he’d graduate, whether Nancy liked him, what to wear to some stupid party. Now there’s too much to take in and he doesn’t understand most of it. He misses the simplicity, the ignorance of it all. He misses being  _ normal _ but this is the hand he’s been dealt, the only one he has to play with. It’s selfish to be focused on his own lost adolescence when he’s sat in front of child who had hers stolen away. But he’s always been selfish, always been focused on his own pain instead of others.

 

“I’m sorry Jane,” he says, reaching for hand because it’s the only thing he can offer. Just a reassuring touch. At least that’s what it’s supposed to be.

 

Hawkins Lab is just like he’d imagined it to be back then. Long corridors, baron and dull looking. A man with white hair— _ papa _ —holding a boy in his arms. Unruly blonde hair, frail looking, like he hasn’t eaten a meal in days. There’s another man at the end of the hall stood next to a suitcase, his face expressionless and empty. Billy’s dropped to his feet, pushed towards the man a little roughly.

 

_ Call him whatever you want. You were never here.  _ **_He_ ** _ was never here. _

 

Jane pulls her hand away slowly and gives him a knowing look, like she can feel his anger, like she feels it too. He looks down at his hands, struggling to comprehend what just happened.

 

“Was that—that was a memory right? You just showed me your memory.”

 

—

 

Jane nods solemnly, thoughts of the man in the coat swirling in her mind.  _ Dangerous _ , that’s what Hopper called those men, called Papa. The kind of men Kali found all over. She looks at Steve for a moment, trying to gauge his reaction. He looked how she felt; scared, angry, sad. Sad in a way most things didn’t fix. 

 

“That man is bad, I remember him. Mean to all of us and—different,” she says slowly, her eyes moving to the door and replaying what she’d shown Steve. Then she reaches out, her finger tapping and sliding down the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Billy was drooling. The week before he left, all the time.”

 

—

 

Steve sees Billy holding his head, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead like there was an overwhelming pain crashing through him. Shaved spots on his head so they could hook him up to something.  _ He was never here _ . Wiping his memory clean like an etch-a-sketch. Starting over from fake memories of California, of that man as his father. An entire life built on lies. He has to tread carefully, needs to make sure this doesn’t completely tear Billy apart.

 

“He needs to meet you properly. He needs to remember but—not all at once,” Steve says, meeting Jane’s big eyes and trying to force a small smile out. “It’s gotta be slow. If you show him everything at once it might be too much. I don’t know how much he can handle.”

 

—

 

Jane nods, taking in the word  _ slow _ and thinking of roaming around Mike’s house while he was out. Taking in things she’d never seen before but liked now; Millenium Falcon, a television, a soft place to sleep or sit. Maybe if Billy learned things slowly he could like them too, the parts that weren’t so scary. 

 

“Brother,” she says quietly, meeting Steve’s half hearted smile with one of her own, pushing all the positivity she can right out of it. “I’ll talk to my brother. It’s good, not being alone. Having Mike. Are you Billy’s Mike?”

 

—

 

For all of Billy’s complaining about Max— _ she’s my stepsister, not my sister _ —it seems almost karmic that the universe may have given him another born of strange circumstances. Steve can’t imagine Billy being very fond of that word coming out of Jane’s mouth but there are too many surprising, confusing things about him as it stands. What’s one more?

 

The Mike comment doesn’t pass him by. Neither does the full body reaction he seems to have to it—a defensive and shocked noise escaping his mouth. It’s not really believable but Jane’s just a kid, it should be to her.

 

“He’s not—I’m not— _ we’re not _ ,” Steve says, flailing his hands in the air to represent something. “Friends. We’re just friends. Barely even that most of the time.”

 

—

 

Jane considers Steve a moment, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. The way Steve was talking before sounded a lot like Mike. The worry on his face was too, the way he was asking her to meet with Billy. 

 

“Sometimes, but not as much anymore—other people do that too,” she says, itching for another glass of chocolate milk, her eyes glued to it. “They think I don’t know as much as I do because I haven’t been outside. I’ve seen all of the bad things people can do, can  _ be _ .”

 

She looks to Steve again and pats him on the hand like it’ll bring him some comfort, her smile thin but genuine. 

 

“I’d like to sit with Billy. I’d like to see my brother, try to get him to remember. He isn’t bad—but he isn’t just your friend either.”

 

—

 

Getting called on his lie by a child makes Steve feel a little uncomfortable, like he’s overstayed his welcome. He shifts in his seat, runs a hand through his hair and looks away. Jane must see something in him and he wonders if other people see it too, if he’s really the last to know.

 

“He’s—”

 

Steve pauses as he thinks about how to finish the sentence. What is Billy to him really? An enemy.

A friend. A warm distraction from the loneliness. Somebody he gets off with, makes out with, holds at night like they’re  _ boyfriends.  _ Somebody he wants to protect no matter what, even if that means confronting some of his own ideas about who and what he is.

 

“It doesn’t matter. I care about him, I guess. I know he’s not all bad but he’s—unpredictable. Let me talk to him, try and get him to come here so it can just be the two of you.”

 

—

 

“I was unpredictable too. I still am, sometimes. Coming from the lab—Hopper says I was  _ dealt a bad hand _ ,” Jane says, trying to imitate the words the way she heard them the first time. The care and the protection offered after. “So was Billy. Billy just needs friends, he needs something to look forward to. Back in the lab he was nice, not the way people talk about him now.”

 

She thinks Steve could be the thing Billy could look forward to, maybe. The air shifts in the room with Steve’s discomfort so she tries to read it better, like she’s been practicing. She stands and collects the empty glasses of chocolate milk and moves toward the kitchen, turning around at the last second. 

 

“Goodbye, Steve.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billy gets taken on a date, Steve discovers a tattoo and things take a turn for the worst.
> 
> A long chapter, thanks in part to the season 3 trailer dropping today!

Jane’s words stay with Steve for the rest of the afternoon. Through a boring dinner with his parents and having to sit through another of his dad's “motivational” speeches designed to get him excited about the  _ working world  _ like he doesn’t already have a job. 

 

_ Billy needs friends—something to look forward to _ . They’re not really friends, given as they haven’t had much of a real conversation in the entire time they’ve known each other. He doesn’t know how to be a friend to Billy like he does Robin, feels like there’s too much baggage for them to ever be something as simple as  _ friends _ . And giving Billy something to look forward to is a minefield as well. What could Steve possibly do for him besides the obvious—if only he wasn’t too afraid to touch him.

 

He’s still mulling it over on the way to Billy’s that night. Sneaking out of his house at gone midnight had been exciting, reminded him of how he’d used to do it all the time when he was with Nancy. And now he’s pushing the speed limit on an empty road, his stomach twisting and turning with nerves because he doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he gets there, or if Billy will even be awake.

 

He parks the car down the street and hopes to god that nobody watches him creep onto the Hargrove property and round to the side of the house. Luckily the light is still on in Billy’s room, a golden orange glow illuminating the grass. On his tiptoes Steve can easily see into the room. It doesn’t look any different than yesterday, only now Billy’s laying on his bed with a book covering his face. Occasionally he’ll shift a little on the bed, getting into a more comfortable position but not once do his eyes stray from  _ L.A Woman _ . Steve knows he’s waiting too long, that it’s creepy to stand and watch someone like this so he knocks lightly on the window with his fingers. It’s a tiny noise, one he hopes Billy hears.

 

—

 

Billy remembers the first time he picked the book up, sliding it into his coat. He skipped school first thing in the morning and sped off to Hermosa Beach even though there were plenty of bookstores around. He remembers wanting to look straight at the ocean from wherever he stood for a whole day, something about it making him feel just a little less trapped. He hadn’t even known just how trapped he actually was. 

 

The sound at the window makes him flinch minutely, head sticking out over the top of the book, eyes going wide. Steve is—right there. He knows Neil is probably out in the living room nursing beer number five so there’s no way he heard it, though a little frisson of panic still makes a home inside of him as he moves to the window, pushing it up a fraction. 

 

“Hi?” he whispers in lieu of  _ are you trying to get killed  _ or  _ are you completely nuts _ , the thrill of getting to see Steve stomping all other options flat. “What’re you doing here?”

 

—

 

That should be a simple question for Steve to answer but it makes him freeze up, the words caught in his mouth. Instead of answering he looks down at his shoes, at the flowerbed he’s standing on. When he looks up there’s a little bit of excitement in Billy’s eyes, almost overshadowed by fear but still noticeable.

 

“Came to see if you’re—if you wanna hang out,” he says casually instead of  _ I’m here to ask you out on a date _ . He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, it’s not like they haven’t done anything before. But somehow, standing at Billy’s window and asking him to  _ hang out  _ makes him feel a lot more vulnerable than getting a blowjob in his car at the quarry. “Unless you’re busy. It’s cool.”

 

—

 

“Gimme a sec.”

 

Billy’s answer is instant, the idea of escaping his house too good to pass up. He knows without a doubt that it’s got a whole lot to do with exactly who is asking him to climb through his window, with the idea of getting out with  _ Steve _ . He gestures for Steve to turn around with a teasing smile and steps back, rifling through his closet and slipping out of his sleep shorts. 

 

After squeezing himself into a pair of jeans and a shirt he’d meticulously ripped the sleeves off of he climbs back over the bed, jacket tucked under an arm as he uses the other to push the window all the way up. There are pauses every few seconds, muscle memory of particular spots in the window that make the most noise like he’s solving a fucking puzzle. He leaves it open, thinking it’ll probably be easier when he comes back in, the summer heat making the decision easy. 

 

“Hi.”

 

—

 

Steve thinks his face must be bright red and he’s thankful for the dark, at least he can hide it a little that way. There’s no mistaking the butterfly feeling he gets when he looks at Billy, or how he’d felt watching Billy getting changed out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t think it’d be this easy to get Billy out of the house, thought he’d have to do just a little bit of convincing. But now Billy’s stood in front of him and he doesn’t have much of a plan at all.

 

“Hi,” he echoes, eyes on the flowerbed again before nodding his head towards the street. “I’m parked down the road. You hungry? I know a place that’s open late.”

 

—

 

Billy follows Steve with no protest, looking once over his shoulder to watch his house, his prison get smaller and smaller. He ducks into the passenger seat smoothly, buckling himself up and watching Steve do the same. He seems almost nervous but isn’t sure why until—

 

“You taking me out on a date, Steve?” he asks, surprised to find no teasing in his voice. Just a question, even if it feels bigger than it sounds. 

 

—

 

Steve revs the engine a little too hard for midnight, wonders if he can just avoid the question completely. But Billy’s eyes are on him, he can feel them as he pulls the car out of park and turns onto the main road.

 

“Not sure if you could call it a  _ date _ ,” he says, catching a glimpse of Billy out of the corner of his eye. “I mean you could—if you wanted to.”

 

—

 

_ If you wanted to _ . Billy  _ wants  _ to call it a date, the word knocking around in his head and making the corner of his mouth tick up. He thinks about the dates he’s been on before, the ones he’s taken girls out on since he stepped foot in Hawkins. They didn’t feel like this even if nothing’s happened yet, no mindless giggling or empty platitudes to fill the car. Just him and Steve, the lack of chatter comfortable, quiet. 

 

“Date,” he says definitively, even if his voice is quiet too, not wanting to pop the bubble of the Beemer separating them from the rest of the world. His mouth curls up into a more genuine thing, his eyes on Steve like he’s surprised he even offered the option. “A date.”

 

—

 

Steve mulls over the world for a moment, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear stick. It’d be easy to just move his hand over a few inches, slide it across Billy’s thighs like he wants to. That’s what he’s done on other dates, always thinking of a way to make a move. But everything with Billy is different, more combustible.  So he keeps his hand where it is, tries to keep his smile small even if it’s still noticeable.

 

“A date,” he confirms, pushing the gas a little harder, biting his lip. “Hope you like cheap diner food, best I can do in Hawkins at this hour.”

 

—

 

“Oh, you’re sweeping me off my feet already, sweetheart,” Billy says, his smile widening to a grin, all teeth at the sight of Steve’s. “You had me at  _ cheap _ .”

 

_ Benny’s Burgers  _ got closer in his vision and he hums in approval as Steve parks. He’s been here a few times though he’s never seen the elusive  _ Benny _ , just some other old guys manning the counter. They’ve been nice enough and always let him stay extra late if he needed to, one of them waving with a big, weathered arm at him. 

 

“Kinda weird that there’s no Benny at all,” he says, slipping his leather jacket on and sliding into a booth. “Guy’s got a place named after him and everything. There’s a picture of him from some news clipping and it’s not like he was ancient. If I had a place with my name on it I’d be milking that shit.”

 

—

 

Steve follows him into a booth and grabs the menu to keep his hands busy. He’s still worried that he’s going to end up reaching over and touching Billy. It’s not that that would be an issue, more that they’re in public and he’s not sure how to navigate any of this yet. 

 

At least that thought keeps him a little distracted from the Benny talk. He’d heard snippets of conversation between Hopper and Joyce, that Jane was involved somehow. Besides that he doesn’t really know what happened, knows it was linked to the lab, where Billy was from.

 

“I heard he killed himself,” he whispers across the table, leaning in close. “I think I can remember seeing it on the front page of the Hawkins Gazette a year or so ago.”

 

He diverts his gaze from Billy’s, scans the menu and mentally kicks himself for bringing up something so sensitive. Under the table he slides his foot towards Billy’s until their touching. It’s clunky and a little awkward but he can’t help smiling as he looks up at Billy.

 

“What do you wanna eat?”

 

—

 

Billy blinks over at Steve, whether at the information or the game of footsies he isn’t sure. Still, he curves their ankles together and gives Steve’s foot a little shake, returning the smile as easy as breathing. 

 

“Burger and fries is fine,” he says, trying to gauge whether Steve’s asking because he’s going to order for him. Steve did say he could call it a date if he wanted to and—well, he does. More than he’s wanted anything in a while. He props an elbow on the table and looks at Steve with his chin in his hand, eyebrows furrowed. “Would  _ you  _ call it that? A date?”

 

—

 

Sitting across from Billy, it’s hard not to see everything through the lens of a  _ date _ . Their feet under the table practically confirms it, along with the slight nervousness that has Steve’s eyes fixed mostly on the menu instead of Billy. He hasn’t been on a date like this, one where he’s too scared to lean across the table and touch what’s right there in front of him. 

 

The hopeful look in Billy’s eyes is hard to miss when he finally looks up from the menu. There’s no way he can say no, not that he was really considering it anyway.

 

“I think so,” he says quietly, still all too aware of where they are as he gestures between them.“I haven’t done  _ this _ before. It’s always been—you’re the first guy I’ve done this with.”

 

—

 

“Well, I figured that,” Billy says with raised eyebrows, giving Steve’s foot another jiggle. “Look like you’re gonna drop dead.”

 

_ I think so  _ is good enough for him, something he can take. He tries to look reassuring but it’s not like he’s ever gone on a real date with a guy either, beach days with Kelly notwithstanding. Didn’t count then, didn’t feel like something he had to try too hard to do. This was different, more important somehow. Even without the shiny sparkle of a first friendly encounter, all hopes for that gone between both of them. 

 

“Thanks anyway, for this  _ maybe date _ ,” he says, whispering the last two words with a small smile, one he finds genuine. 

 

—

 

“No, it’s not a  _ maybe  _ date. It’s a-” 

 

Steve stops for a second to look around for a moment before leaning forward like he’s about to share a secret.

 

“It’s a date. A real date.”

 

He drops the menu and leans back into the leather, tries to soften all the parts of his body that feel hunched up and on edge. Their just two people having a meal—two people on a date. It doesn’t matter that Billy isn’t soft and feminine like a girl. The only thing that matters is that smile and the excitement Steve feels as he looks across the table at him.

 

He’s pulled back into reality when the waitress comes over to take their order, her lips smacking around gum.

 

“Two burgers and fries please,” he says, pushing the menus in her direction. “And two strawberry shakes. Thank you.”

 

—

 

Billy offers a saccharine smile to the waitress and watches her go, aware of Steve’s eyes on him when he isn’t looking. It makes him feel fucking ridiculous, warm all over, like there’s nothing else to worry about for this one shining moment. Not Neil and how long he’s been lying or what exactly he’s been lying about, not that girl with the dark hair or the number he remembers acting as her name back then, not wondering if he might get spooked by something and destroy the jukebox. Just whether he might have a curl out of place, or if he’ll get to kiss  _ Steve Harrington  _ later. Whether he can get the next few words out. 

 

“I’m sorry, you know,” he says, running his tongue over his teeth and settling back into the booth. “About that night, being a dick at school, all that shit. Know I’ve said it but if this is—what you say it is, what I  _ want  _ it to be, just—keep it in mind. Once upon a time I wasn’t a prick.”

 

—

 

_ Back in the lab he was nice _ .

 

Jane had said it with such conviction that it was hard not to believe her. Being here with Billy, it’s easy to see that person—nice, kind,  _ softer _ —and not the Billy he’s grown so accustomed to. Steve wasn’t expecting any apology, let alone something that feels so genuine. It’s a little unnerving having his mind thrown back to the night in question, the memory of Billy’s fists.

 

“It’s okay,” he says, his fingers playing with the corner of table where some of the vinyl peels away. “You’re not a prick, I don’t think you are. Jane—the girl you met—she told me you were nice, I think she’s right.”

 

—

 

“I remember her, just a little bit,” Billy says, mouth turned up in one corner at the smoothing over of his apology, a vouching from someone he must’ve spent years with that he can’t recall much of. “Sweet, quiet. All the kids, I think they all were. Do you know any—never mind.”

 

He shakes his head like shaking rain off a coat, miming zipping his lips and throwing away the key. He definitely doesn’t want to talk about the lab on a fucking date. Instead he runs the toe of his boot up Steve’s calf absentmindedly, the smile reaching both corners of his mouth. He wonders if there’s some alternate universe where he could reach across for Steve’s hand. Wishful thinking. 

 

“What’s your plan after this, Romeo?  _ Thank you _ ,” he says, grinning up at the waitress as she brings their plates, not wasting any time diving into his burger. 

 

—

 

Steve watches Billy devour his food like he hasn’t eaten a good meal in days. It’s impossible not to feel a sliver of pride at how happy Billy looks, knowing he was responsible for it. His own food is just as mouthwatering and taking a bite gives him enough time to think of a reply.

 

“It’s late. There’s not much open now,” he says around a mouthful before looking at Billy mischievously. “I know a place though—somewhere quiet.”

 

—

Billy wiggles his eyebrows over his cheeseburger, trying not to smile with his mouth completely full. He’s not an  _ absolute  _ degenerate. He thinks of the implications and how they don’t feel so secretive now. Sure, not something either of them want to broadcast, but different than silent altercations in the dark. 

 

“Well, I’d say we should get this to go,” he says, dipping a handful of fries into his shake and gulping them down. “But I’m actually fucking starving.”

 

—

 

Steve nods in agreement, quickly devouring most of his own burger. They eat in silence for the most part, just the appreciative sounds that Billy makes every time he takes a bite and the tinny music from the jukebox. Surprisingly it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Usually Steve’s the one trying to fill up the silence but now he doesn’t need to, not when he’s sitting with Billy. It’s easy and familiar, like they’ve always been doing this.

 

Once they’re done the waitress comes over to clean away their plates. She leaves the bill folded up on the table and Steve immediately pulls out his wallet, puts the cash on top of it without even thinking. It’s a date after all. He was the one that picked Billy up, dragged him out here in the middle of the night.

 

“You ready?” he asks, pulling on his jacket and shoving the wallet back into his pocket.

 

—

 

Billy nods and slides out of the booth, stupid daydreams of swinging their hands between them in his head as they make their way back to the car. It’s stupid, he’s never felt giddy about something like this since they got to Hawkins. Now that he is he kind of wants to pinch himself, wait for the other shoe to drop like it always does. Except Steve’s—Jesus, holding the passenger side door open for him. 

 

He doesn’t pinch himself after all, just slips inside and watches Steve bop his head to some fucking Duran Duran, can’t find it in him to tease. The closer they get the easier it is to realize exactly where Steve is taking him, though he waits until they’ve parked to say it. 

 

“Lover’s Lake, huh?”

 

—

 

When Steve had first gotten his car this had been the go to spot. Friday nights had consisted of finding a girl to make out with on the backseat. No dinner beforehand. No preamble. Just hormone fuelled groping and whatever the girl would let him do. He’d never been one to push, to take more than what was being offered to him. Being parked here with Billy doesn’t feel much different, only he’s got a little more skin in the game this time round and he can’t remember ever being this nervous with a girl in the front seat. Maybe it’s the fact that Billy could break him apart with his mind, or that he isn’t anything like a girl, or anyone Steve’s ever been with for that matter.

 

“It’s a dumb name, but yeah, it’s quiet. People don’t come here this late,” he says, looking out across the water surrounded by trees. “We don’t have to—y’know,  _ do  _ anything.”

 

He unbuckles his seat belt and turns the radio back on, some soft rock music he vaguely recognises coming out of his speakers. In another life he would be leaning across to plant a kiss on Billy’s mouth, telling him to climb in the backseat and relax. But in this life he just sits there, smiling slightly at Billy and trying to read the look on his face.

 

—

 

Billy wonders of Steve’s feeding him a line, thinks it would be a good one. One that people probably think he uses even though  _ Sure Thing  _ is practically stamped on his forehead—just not the way the rednecks in Hawkins might think.  As he unbuckles his seatbelt he can feel Steve looking at him, that little smile on his face.  _ Sure Thing  _ is right. 

 

“Well, what if I wanted to?” he asks, turning in his seat to face Steve, lounging like an overgrown house cat. “ _ Do  _ something?”

 

—

 

One benefit of having the radio on is that it drowns out the noise of Steve’s escalating heartbeat, gives him something else to focus on. He can’t look away from Billy though, keeps his eyes fixed on his face. There’s no hesitation and Steve wonders if Billy feels nervous at all, or whether this is just something he’s used to. 

 

“We can,” he says nervously, not really knowing what he’s signing himself up for. 

 

The thought of touching Billy is terrifying. Shoves and punches are one thing but getting his hands on Billy like this, making him feel good, that’s completely different. It’s easy to have Billy on his knees, harder to be on the same level. That doesn’t stop him from wanting it though, even if it is nerve wracking.

 

“What do you want to do?” he says, trying to relax his shoulders and loosen up.

 

—

 

Billy doesn’t have to give it much thought, it turns out. Steve looks nervous and it strangely puts him at ease, at least for the moment. He’s being asked what he wants to do and it’s a small opportunity to be honest, to extend his hand and crook his finger in a  _ come hither _ motion, butterflies in his stomach when Steve leans a bit closer. 

 

What he wants is to lean forward in kind so he does, grabbing for one of Steve’s hands and placing it on his face, getting him to cradle his cheek. It makes his eyelids flutter even if he was the one to orchestrate it, something going loose inside of him. What he wants is something soft for a second so he takes it, leans forward to make their lips meet in a kiss. It turns hungry on his end in seconds, the normalcy of kissing someone who wants to kiss him back making him sigh into Steve’s mouth. 

 

—

 

It only takes a moment for Steve to kick into action, his hands finding Billy’s jacket and shoving it down his arms. Something wild takes over then, the part of him that doesn’t feel nervous about something so simple as making out with someone. Once he’s gotten rid of Billy’s jacket his hands find their way to his hair, tangle in it and pull gently. It’s a move that seems to work when Billy’s mouth opens and Steve’s able to slide their tongues together.

 

“Backseat,” he manages to say, breathless when he pulls away. He shrugs off his own jacket, thankful that he’s still got his old picnic blanket back there. He gives Billy a grin before fumbling his way out of the driver’s seat and into the back, his hands shaking in his lap as he waits for Billy.

 

—

 

Billy doesn’t want to waste time lingering on Steve’s nervousness, let alone his own. What he wants is to surge forward again, get Steve’s hand back on his face to keep going where they left off. His lips part in an instant, inviting Steve’s tongue in, moaning when he gets what he’s asking for. 

 

“Want you to pin me down, Steve,” he says as he surfaces for breath, Steve’s name sounding a lot more like  _ sweetheart  _ than anything. “You lay girls down here? Get them nice and wet and desperate?”

 

—

 

Steve doesn’t really know what to say. He wants to say no but that would be a lie, an obvious one at that. He can’t remember it ever feeling like this though, can’t remember his hands shaking. They are now though, even when he pushes Billy’s shoulders so that he’s lying back against the seats. It’s surprisingly easy to pretend that he’s not nervous as he makes a space for himself between Billy’s legs, licks into his mouth like he’s done this a thousand times before.

 

This he can do—pin Billy down, get him to stop talking by covering his mouth with his own. Once he settles into it it’s easier to relax, just focusing on Billy’s breathing and the softness of his lips. But soon that’s not enough and he finds his hands moving lower, pulling up Billy’s t-shirt and hovering over skin that’s simultaneously hard and soft.

 

—

 

It’s fucking perfect, just like he’s been picturing it. Billy  _ has  _ been picturing it for months and months. If he’s honest with himself—which he rarely is—he’s been picturing this since the first time he laid eyes on Steve. Staring him down with his chin jutting out, asserting something that was absolute fucking bullshit. What he’d wanted wasn’t so much a power struggle as it was  _ this _ , just like this. 

 

He briefly remembers Kelly doing this the first time, easing him down and peeling all of his clothes off. It had been terrifying, soothed by sure hands and a low voice in his ear, jeans pushed down to his knees and his own voice muffled into his forearm. There are no sure hands here, not even ill intentioned ones. 

 

_ You’re the first guy I’ve done this with _ . 

 

Billy wouldn’t pick himself as anyone’s first anything. For all that he’s postured in his life, the past few years that he remembers clearer, he’s always known he was the runt of the litter. Neil’s only gotten worse the longer he’s been out of school, no reasons to aim for places that won’t stick out at gym or in the locker room. His body is a fucking Rorschach blot of bruises and scarring, only seen in bits and pieces by people, no hints of Neil’s heavy hand. 

 

Still, he tries to relax into it, remembers Steve asking what  _ he  _ wanted. It’s this, whining into Steve’s mouth despite the anxiety that flares up when his shirt is pushed up. He tells himself it’s just butterflies again, knows that it feels good, hopes it gives way. 

 

—

 

Everything feels different, a million miles away from Steve’s comfort zone. He knows what to do with curves and breasts, knows all the spots to touch to get the desired outcome. He doesn’t really know what to do with this—the smooth chest or the tuft of hair just below Billy’s navel, skin that’s warm and soft under his hands. Being stuck in his head really isn’t where he wants to be at this precise moment. Overthinking things isn’t usually his modus operandi but it’s hard to think of much else except the fact that he’s hard in his jeans and it’s all thanks to Billy Hargrove.

 

After a few more minutes of kissing, he moves his mouth to Billy’s neck the way he’s done so many times before with so many others. Only this time he’s licking over a sharp Adam’s apple and dragging his teeth over a five o’clock shadow. The noises that Billy makes do nothing to calm the situation—soft little whimpers that have Steve pushing down harder until he’s sure Billy can feel it too.

 

“Is this what you want?” he asks as his hand pushes past the waistband of Billy’s jeans. He lingers there, waiting for Billy to tell him something, give him the encouragement to keep going. “Tell me.”

 

—

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Billy says, a sharp hiss of pleasure that has his hips arching up into Steve’s hand. He sets the flat of his palm against the top of it, pressing down like some extra bit of assurance. “Come on, touch me.”

 

So far Steve hasn’t strayed anywhere he has any qualms about, his shirt still blissfully on his back. If it’s like this it’s fine, will be fine. He can close his eyes like this, sigh up at the roof of Steve’s car like he’s any other girl Steve’s spread out back here. He can savor the feeling of Steve’s mouth on his neck and his jaw, cant his chin up in a request for more. 

 

—

 

The encouragement is enough to get Steve moving a little more frantically, like he’s just realised they don’t have all night to be out here. As much as he’d like to take it slow, faster is better—gives him less time to linger on any of his nervousness. The feeling of Billy’s hand over his own kicks him into action, has him pulling at the bottom of his own t-shirt until it’s over his head and thrown onto the front seat. Skin on skin is what he needs and he tugs at the bottom of Billy’s t shirt, starts to bring it up over his head.

 

“Let me see you,” he says, eyes fixed on every inch of skin that gets revealed. “ _ Want  _ to see you.”

 

—

 

Billy’s shirt gets pulled about halfway up before he even thinks about it. Then it’s all he really  _ can  _ think about, how fucking stupid it is that he even has to at all. For once, by no fucking fault of his own either. He blinks rapidly and tries to simmer down the increasingly erratic pace of his heartbeat, looks up at the ceiling of the car, big brown eyes looking down at him. 

 

The overhead light cracks once, twice until the little bulb inside shatters, making him jump from his spot on his back. When it happens, after, he finds he’s not that surprised. 

 

—

 

“Jesus,” Steve yells, pulling back and managing to hit his head on the roof of the car in the process. “What the  _ hell _ ?”

 

It’s a lot darker now with only the light of the sky reflecting off the water outside the car. He can’t make out everything but he can see Billy’s face, can see the fear and the alarm there like he’s looking at a deer caught in the headlights. He’s not entirely sure why he feels responsible for it, why there’s a pang of guilt ripping through him when he looks at Billy.

 

He gets his hand on his head, rubs the spot he hit and tries to make sense of what just happened. Everything was fine, Billy  _ wanted  _ him to keep going, to touch him. He’d taken his shirt off, pulled up Billy’s and—

 

The pieces fit into place and then it all seems obvious. He relaxes a little, moves just a few inches closer because the last thing he wants to do is spook Billy even more—now, not here. He’s never been the brightest bulb in the box but this he understands. Insecurity, inadequacy. Only he doesn’t understand why  _ Billy  _ of all people would be feeling those things.

 

“Billy,” he says quietly, cautiously edging closer. “Why don’t you want me to see you?”

 

—

 

Billy thinks maybe a year ago he would’ve sounded confused too. That it’s harder than he thought to explain Neil to anyone or the scars that end up standing out just a bit more in the summer. A year ago he wouldn’t have given a shit, only he’s eighteen now. An adult, fair fucking game, not a child Neil would have to make excuses for. 

 

Steve’s moving closer and at least that’s not terrifying, not that part of it. He glances above Steve’s head to where the cover of the dome light is cracked in a few places, thinks about making some joke about it not being Steve’s windows this time. Instead he just swallows. 

 

“It’s not pretty,” he says evenly, pushing his shirt back down and rolling his neck out. Like it’s fine, like it doesn’t bother him. He’s absolutely shit at it. 

 

—

 

_ Pretty _ seems like such a strange word to be associated with someone like Billy. For all his bravado and put on machismo, it seems odd that someone like him would care about what he looked like under Steve’s car lights. Undoubtedly he would look good, better than Steve ever would under fluorescent lighting. Billy’s all golden skin and muscle with soft edges. Steve can’t comprehend why he doesn’t want him to look, why he doesn’t want to show it all off now he’s got the chance.

 

“Bullshit,” Steve says, sitting back on his heels, not wanting to push any further. “Not like I haven’t seen it before dipshit. Remember we used to share a shower? Saw a lot more than what’s under your T-shirt.”

 

—

 

“Yeah, no shit,” Billy replies, pushing him back up once he’s sure he’s got the room to, fingertips absolutely itching for a cigarette. “A lot changes in a year, especially once you’re a legal adult. Do I need to spell it out?”

 

He doesn’t mean to sound short for once, hopes Steve can tell it’s not at him. It’s at himself pretty much consistently now, social pomp bullshit impossible to obtain and even more difficult to care about. He can’t get wasted or rail anything without waking up to everything covered in ash now, knows he can’t be anything but dead sober for this. 

 

“My old man’s a dick, you heard him.”

 

—

 

“You think I give a shit about what you look like under that?” Steve asks, motioning towards Billy’s t-shirt. “I don’t. If it makes you feel better you can keep it on but—I want to see  _ you _ .”

 

Steve knows enough about insecurity—how to live with it, how to bury it so deep nobody will ever find it. It’s not so much physically, more that he’s spent months stuck in a loop of all the negative things he’s ever heard about himself. There’s Nancy, always Nancy and  _ you’re an idiot Steve Harrington _ . There’s his dad telling him he’ll never make anything out of his life. His teachers telling him he’s aimless, just another dumb kid that’ll end up working for their parents. Little do they know he could make manager at Scoops Ahoy in a few months, if he’s lucky.

 

It’s nothing compared to the physical reminders that Billy carries. The messages from Neil that tell him he’s worthless, just a scourge on his life. That has Steve inching closer, has him reaching out to touch Billy’s hands and curl their fingers together.

 

“He’s an asshole but you’re not. You can try to be all you like if that makes you feel safer but I know you’re not like him.”

 

—

 

Billy chews on the inside of his cheek, staring at Steve like he can catch him in a lie. That time doesn’t really come, just Steve looking all big eyed and earnest, smooth as fucking butter. When he looks down their hands are touching and super connected, like they’re fused. 

 

_ But you’re not _ . 

 

The car looks brighter all of the sudden and his eyebrows knit together in confusion, moving up the pleasing sweep of Steve’s freckled chest to his face. Still there and still genuine, telling him that he’s not an absolute piece of shit and he  _ knows  _ it. The light hits the back of Steve’s head like a halo, makes his own face feel soft. 

 

“I—okay. You can.”

 

—

 

Steve wants to ask how the light came on when just a minute ago it was cracked open but he decides against it. Billy doesn’t know how it works, he’s just as much in the dark as Steve is. So he keeps his mouth shut, makes a note to mention it to Jane the next time they see each other. He keeps their hands together for a moment, some warm, comforting feeling flooding through him at the sight of them. It’s strange and exciting in equal measure and he can’t stop himself from moving their hands together, keeping his eyes fixed on them until he finds something better to look at.

 

Billy’s looking up at him with a kind of soft expression, like he’s a little bit awestruck too. It’s then that Steve lets himself really take it in. The light isn’t exactly the most flattering but Billy still manages to look handsome underneath it. Even with bags under his eyes and some faded bruising, Billy is still the textbook definition of handsome. There’s the bright blue of his eyes picking up the reflection of the overhead light. A pretty pink pout and eyelashes that are thicker than they could ever need to be. Every single inch of Billy’s face is fucking perfect and has Steve moving forward to kiss him softly.

 

“You are you know,” he says, slowly parting their hands to rub his own over Billy’s arms. “ _ Pretty _ .”

 

—

 

“Yeah?” Billy says, sounding hopeful and eager despite himself. 

 

Except maybe not. Maybe he really does get to have this, a gentle kiss from Steve Harrington in the back of his BMW. Maybe he doesn’t have to think of it like every other girl that’s been here. Maybe he gets to be different, significant. The first guy Steve’s done this with. Maybe he can still get laid out back here, let Steve see everything. If Steve thinks he’s pretty. 

 

He looks up at Steve as he reaches out, hands running up and across his chest before he moves back. It does take a second of thought but he pulls his shirt up and off of his head, lets it fall to the backseat floor, too nervous to look anywhere else but Steve’s face. 

 

—

 

It’s hard not to be taken aback by the numerous bruises and scars across Billy’s body, all of them illuminated and right there in front of Steve. He doesn’t let any sadness show though, keeps a smile on his face and brings his hands to Billy’s chest. He’s warm and soft, just like Steve knew he would be and it has him pressing closer despite the fairly obvious hardness in the front of his jeans. Billy wants this,  _ he  _ wants this, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.

 

“You’re…” Steve trails off, his eyes taking in every bruise and scar and mark across his chest before running his hands over them. “Beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

 

—

 

Billy doesn’t need to ask Steve for confirmation this time. It’s written all over his face and the almost reverent way those big hands he’s been dreaming about move over his skin. He settles for reaching a hand up to Steve’s cheek, letting a charged sort of silence fill the car.  _ Show me _ , he thinks but doesn’t say. 

 

He leans forward for a kiss, as soft as the one he was given but hungrier. Everything he does is hungrier because he’s fucking starving for this, the dome light shining so bright he wonders if he’s going to kill the bulb all over again. He spreads his legs to make room for Steve as he leans back, pulling Steve with him, their mouths still blissfully connected. 

 

—

 

Picking up where they left off is easy, especially with Billy shirtless and sweet underneath him. It’s easy to fall back into it, his hands fumbling with the belt on Billy’s jeans and then the zipper. Finally he’s shoving his hand inside and further than it’s been before, nerves be damned. He finds Billy just as excited as he is—hard and hot in his hand. It doesn’t feel as odd as he thought it would, something strangely natural about wrapping his hand around Billy’s cock in the backseat of his car.

 

“You gotta tell me what feels good,” he says, voice a little shaky with arousal and anxiety. “Wanna make you feel good.”

 

—

 

Billy nods before capturing Steve’s lips in another kiss, little kitten licks to his upper lip in a request to be let in. Steve’s hand on his cock makes him feel a whole lot younger, ready to come in his pants at the slightest touch. He moves his hand from Steve’s cheek for the barest moment, just long enough to get his jeans undone, pull his cock out. He feels like he knows it well by now, sliding his thumb over the head, using the precome there to slick the way as he twists his wrist. 

 

“Like th- _ at _ , not too fast,” he pants against Steve’s mouth, thighs knocked out wide, his other hand pressing down on Steve’s lower back to give him something to rut up against. 

 

—

 

“Oh— _ god _ ,” Steve moans, voice going impossibly deep as his eyes fall closed for a brief moment.  “Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

 

His own movements are a little stop-start, like he can’t quite build a rhythm at first. It feels like he’s disappointing, especially with Billy’s hand working him over like it was built just for this. But he knows he’s just getting in his head again, tries to focus on those sweet little noises that Billy makes. He’d never imagine that somebody like Billy could make noises like that—desperate, high pitched whines that seem simultaneously out of character and  _ so  _ Billy. 

 

His hand is starting to ache but he keeps going, determined to bring Billy to brink and over the edge. Only he’s pretty certain he’s going to get there quicker, especially with Billy’s skilled hand wrapped around him, soft and strong. He can feel it build with every stroke and he knows he’s going to cum embarrassingly quickly, nothing to blame it on except for Billy and how good he looks spread out on his backseat.

 

“ Almost there,” he practically growls into Billy’s ear, nipping at his lobe and mimicking the movements of Billy’s hand. “I’m— _ fuck _ , Billy.”

 

—

 

The tone of Steve’s voice has Billy’s eyes rolling back into his head, one leg falling off the side of the seat while the other hooks around the back of one of Steve’s. This is more of what he’d pictured that first time at the quarry, even if he’d known then it would never happen for him. Their bodies sliding together, picturing  _ Steve Harrington _ yanking his ass up in the air and pounding into him. Somehow this is better, more tame and still enough to send shockwaves of pleasure up his spine. 

 

The sounds coming out of him are impossible to control now, cloying and saccharine sweet as he holds on and bucks up into Steve’s hand. It doesn’t matter that he’s not great at it, what matters is him wanting it at all, wanting  _ Billy  _ at all. The way Steve’s cock twitches in his hand is enough to tell him that. 

 

He doesn’t have time to warn Steve before he cums, thighs tensing on either side of him as it hits his stomach. To his credit his hand doesn’t stop moving, hips still lifting to get Steve to grind into them, gasping for breath and still moaning like it’s never going to end. 

 

—

 

Steve wonders if he’s ever felt anything as intensely as he feels at this precise moment. He can’t remember it ever feeling like this with anyone else. Usually handjobs were simply perfunctory, something he’d do to himself or if he was lucky, a girl who knew what she was doing. But this. This is a whole new level of sensory overload and that’s what he’s focused on when he cums all over Billy’s hand. That it’s never felt like this. That nothing has ever felt like this.

 

“Fucking hell,” he manages to croak out, forehead somehow sweaty and his own hand sticky. He looks down at Billy, at the blissful look on his face and the way his pupils are even wider now. He has to lean forward to kiss him, can’t keep away. “You’re—something else.”

 

—

 

Billy lets out a shaky, exhausted laugh and listens to the sound his head makes when it thunks back down against the seat. He feels something he’s never quite felt before, something beyond Kelly or what shitty thrills he’s sought out since moving here.  _ Smitten _ . The kind that makes his shoulders raise even though they’ve both got cum all over themselves, the kind caused by the kiss he’s given. 

 

“Mhm, back at you,” he slurs, head lolling on his neck, a smile full of teeth breaking out across his face. 

 

—

 

The backseat of his car is hardly the most comfortable place but there’s nowhere else Steve would rather be right now. A stupid part of him wonders if he’ll be able to smell Billy in here after he’s gone— _ Aramis _ , cigarettes and hairspray sticking to the seats. He hopes so, even if it does seem ridiculous and childish.

 

“You fixed the light,” he says gently, sitting back to give Billy a bit of breathing room. Above them the overhead light continues to burn brightly, way more than it did before Billy broke it. “That’s...that’s really something.”

 

—

 

“Huh,” Billy says, tilting his head up at it in confusion, blindly fishing for his shirt and wiping himself off with it before handing it to Steve. “Didn’t know I could do that.”

 

His brows knit together as he sits up a little, reaching with a now clean hand to tap at the dome light. He cracked the cover but that looks like the extent of it, which makes no sense at all. He’d heard the bulb break and the light go right out. The fact that he broke it in the first place doesn’t make a lot of sense either, though he guesses it just does for him now. 

 

—

 

Steve doesn’t notice it at first, too busy watching Billy’s face and the confusion that floods it. It’s only when he pulls his focus to Billy’s arm that he finally sees it. He has to stop himself from laughing because honestly it might be the most ridiculous tattoo he’s seen on anyone. And he gets it—they’re adults now, they can get tattoos but why Billy would choose that is beyond him. Instinctively his fingers reach out to touch it, the dumb little smoking skull.

 

“This new?” he asks, running his hand over it. “Never noticed it before.”

 

—

 

“Hm? Yeah, got it the day after we graduated,” Billy says, looking over his right shoulder at it, at how Steve’s fingers look on it. “You look a little prissy about it. Don’t approve, Stevie?”

 

A few months ago, definitely a year ago, that particular name would’ve been joined by a sneer. This time it comes with a smile, real and small. He snags a touch of his own, this one to Steve’s cheek again. He feels like he’s allowed to now, thumb brushing over those two twin moles he likes so much. Like someone flicked paint all over Steve’s skin. 

 

—

 

Steve keeps his fingers on the tattoo, tracing the outline over and over again. The more he looks at it, the more endearing it becomes. Typical Billy to get something so seemingly  _ badass _ . It might look like that to everybody else but Steve knows better now, knows Billy better.

 

“It’s cute,” he says, pressing his mouth up against it, letting his tongue move over it for a moment. “Think it’s sweet that you got something so tough looking. Did it hurt?”

 

—

 

“Nah, wasn’t so bad,” Billy says, losing his train of thought when Steve’s tongue runs along it, a little dumbstruck before he snaps himself out of it. “It’s not  _ cute _ .”

 

He tries to look scandalized but the thing is, Steve’s mouth is still on his skin and he’s got absolutely no hope in the face of it. So he busies himself with Steve’s hair, carding his fingers through it and watching it refuse to do anything he wants it to. It makes a smile bloom out of the corner of his mouth. 

 

“So, how’d your first time with a guy go?”

 

—

 

Steve takes his mouth off of Billy’s arm, wipes it with the back of his hand and leans over to the front seat to get his t shirt. It feels like a loaded question, like Billy’s asking more than he’s letting on. At least pulling the t shirt on makes him feel a little safer.

 

“I—it’s hardly my  _ first  _ time,” he says, rolling his eyes. He’s lost count of how many blowjobs Billy’s given him up to this point so technically he’s right but he knows what Billy’s really asking. “You tell me. How was my  _ first time  _ with a guy?”

 

—

 

Billy grins and reaches for his jacket where it was left in the front seat, pulling it on and leaning back against the door, head hitting the window. He slowly starts to button it up, the heat outside not making up for the ugly skin he knows he should hide. Even if Steve thinks it’s pretty. 

 

“Nice, it was really nice,” he says quietly, smoothing the shoulders and chest of Steve’s shirt, smiling at the path his hands are making. It’s only after a minute that he decides to look back up, eyebrows raised. “Right?”

 

—

 

“Right,” Steve confirms, leaning in for a kiss. “Real nice.”

 

That feels natural now too, like it’s just something they do. Work together; hang out at the quarry or the lake or in Steve’s bed; get each other off; make out. The more he thinks about it the less he wants to. Thinking about it will make it bigger than it is and Steve’s not sure if he’s ready for that yet, even if the word  _ boyfriend  _ makes him feel more excited than anything has in a while.

 

“Better get you home huh? It’s getting late.”

 

—

 

Billy makes a short, stubborn sound in the back of his throat and moves to continue the kiss instead. It only lasts another minute before he’s pulling back with a sigh and a resigned nod. He climbs into the passenger side and buckles up, his head resting back and his eyes closed. Replaying the night over and over and over. 

 

He hears the car come to a stop and knows that he’s home, or at least down the block from it. When he opens his eyes Steve is looking at him so he looks back, offers another bright smile. 

 

“See you at work tomorrow?”

 

—

 

Steve keeps his gaze focused on Billy, knows that he probably looks like some kind of lovesick idiot but really can’t find it in him to care at all. The thought of having to spend all day with Billy tomorrow and not be able to touch him or kiss him feels like torture. He might be lucky and get to spend a minute fooling around with him in the back but that’s it. 

 

He leans across the gearstick and puts both hands on Billy’s face, brings him closer for a kiss, long and slow. He takes his time, slides his tongue across Billy’s lips and into his mouth easily. Digs his hands into Billy’s hair and pulls just a little, gets him to go pliant and easy underneath his mouth.

 

“Gonna miss you,” he says, voice darkened by lust and something else, something he’s not quite ready to acknowledge.  “Can’t wait to see you again.”

 

—

 

Billy nods dumbly, turned mute by the kiss. The kind that’s supposed to knock you out and leave your lips tingling, the kind Steve wants to give  _ him _ . He smiles and feels drunk in a way that alcohol could never quite match, unsteady on his feet as he exits the car. 

 

“Bye,” he whispers into the driver’s window, too scared to do anything else out in the open though he hopes Steve can see it on his face. That he wants to. 

 

He walks down the block and looks over his shoulder every few seconds to get a glimpse of Steve’s car. That wild hair gets smaller and smaller until he’s at his window, grinning ear to ear as he climbs through. 

 

When he slips past the windowsill, though, he’s gone. So is everything else. Just black ink under his feet and nothing in the distance. Screaming Steve’s name does nothing. Screaming some more does nothing. The thing in the sky isn’t looming over him now, it’s just behind him before everything hurts, his skin ripped to shreds and no one there, nothing for his voice to bounce off of. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's about to get real.

It’s bright outside when Steve wakes up with a jolt. His alarm is going off somewhere in the distance and he knows he’s late, knows it’s because he was out until 3am last night. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and uses the thought of seeing Billy to propel him out of bed. It works for the most part, that stupid little butterfly feeling he hasn’t had since he can remember.

 

The morning routine passes by in a quick, monotonous blur. Teeth are brushed; his hair is sprayed until he’s happy with it; the sailor uniform gets thrown on. Then he’s in his car, 12:05pm, already five minutes late. It doesn’t really matter much because Billy will be there. That’s another strange thing about Billy—he’s always early. Steve expected him to be one of those people who are perpetually late but he’s always there, like he’s waiting for the distraction of minimum wage work.

 

Only when he gets to the food court, all of the lights are off in Scoops and the shutters are still down. Billy’s not here and that’s mildly alarming but he shrugs it off. He probably overslept too. That’s what he tells himself but there’s a nagging thought in head playing like a stuck tape. Neil would never let Billy oversleep.

 

In the end, Robin has to come in to cover his shift and Steve gets to pretend that everything is fine.

 

“I’m sure he’s just sick,” he says for the fourth time. Robin’s pissed and won’t let it drop.

 

“He calls. Even when  _ he  _ couldn’t call, his dad did. Fucking asshole. I’m sorry Steve, I know you’ve got this like— _ thing  _ going on,” she says, waving her hands dramatically, teeth gritted. “But he’s such a fucking prick sometimes. Like I didn’t have anything better to do today. Fucker still owes me some new shoes too.”

 

Steve doesn’t want to tell Robin that he’s worried, doesn’t want to tell her that they were both out late, getting each other off by Lovers Lake. If anything, Billy should be here with a big fucking grin on his face. He should’ve been early. He should’ve been waiting for Steve with that nervous excitement in his eyes that Steve’s just started to notice.

 

“He’ll show. Probably just sleeping off a hangover,” is what he says instead, even though he hasn’t seen Billy drink in weeks.

 

It’s easier this way—feigning an air of nonchalance and throwing himself into the most menial of tasks. It’s a damn sight better than giving in to anxiety and he’s genuinely surprised that he’s able to keep it at bay for his entire shift. But, like all good things, it doesn’t last.

 

—

 

Billy doesn’t wake up so much as he is instantly awake and alert, the sun only just beginning to rise. Every vein in his body is pumping lightning and there’s something manic on the surface, pushing him out of bed. The house is silent and he uses the opportunity to leave out the front door, uniform under his arm and his eyes scanning the living room before he goes. The television is brown, the couch is grey, and there’s a picture of his  _ family  _ on the mantle, things he must’ve never noticed before. 

 

He throws the uniform into the backseat and has to remember how to drive, how to get himself to the quarry. It’s like a siren song, the gaping maw of clay and soil and rock. He stares into it and sees nothing but what he  _ hears _ —it’s something. A million creatures waiting with baited breath for him to do something, say something and he doesn’t know why. He tries to appease them but can’t do anything but stare, keep standing and staring. Until the sun goes down, until his legs are sore and his neck is stiff from looking down. 

 

When he gets back to his home the handl—his father is sitting in an armchair, amber glass of alcohol in his hand and eyes right on him. He meets them and neither of them say a word, the man’s gaze getting uneasy until he says something about  _ drugs _ . He almost laughs but that doesn’t happen, jaw wired shut while the tension in the room builds until—

 

The phone is ringing, his mother tells him it’s for him. 

 

—

 

At the end of the day Steve writes down Billy’s phone number on a scrap of paper before leaving Robin to lock up. He asks if she wants help but she just rolls her eyes at him, says, “You haven’t helped all day Steve, why start now?”

 

She’s right and he almost feels a little guilty for being so spaced out all day but there’s no time to dwell on that. He’s too busy high-tailing it out of the Starcourt Mall parking lot, tires screeching when he takes a bend just a little too fast. This is why he should’ve never gotten involved—the anxious feeling in his stomach that tells him something's wrong, the fact that he’s _worried_ about Billy Hargrove.

 

At home he’s harassed by his mom, fawned over because she hasn’t seen him in a week and apparently he looks tired.  _ You’ve got no fucking idea _ , he thinks as he takes the stairs two at a time.

 

One of the benefits of being a trust fund baby is the private line in his room. Most of the time he only uses it to talk to Robin, occasionally checks in with Dustin and the kids. Years ago he used it to exchange dirty words with Nancy Wheeler. Now he’s using it to call Billy, punching in the number with shaking hands.

 

There’s a sweet sounding female voice that Steve thinks must be Billy’s step mom, Max’s real mom. He tells her it’s Steve from Scoops Ahoy. It’s the only way he can think to introduce himself.

 

“Thanks mom,” he hears and then someone else is being handed the phone.

 

On the other line Steve can make out Billy’s shallow breathing and wonders if he really was sick, maybe some kind of twenty-four bug. He feels stupid for calling. Too fucking needy and desperate like a teenage girl craving attention.

 

“Uh—Billy? It’s Steve,” he says, waiting for the voice on the other end to say something, anything.

 

—

 

Billy frowns down at the phone, faintly aware of his mother’s expression in his peripheral. She looks shocked but pleased, her eyes doing something strange, like they’re fogged up. Then she pats his arm and he grits his teeth, the touch like nails puncturing his skin. He squeezes his eyes shut before he remembers the phone in his hand, that someone is saying his name. 

 

“Who?” he asks, that manic feeling coming over him again, sniffing everything out, spreading itself all over. 

 

—

 

Steve is quiet for a moment. He shifts on the bed and then he’s got his hand on the back of his neck. It’s a nervous thing, something he does when he can’t work out what's coming next.

 

He presses the phone closer to his ear and tries not to think the worst just yet—that Billy’s just been fucking with him this entire time. There are other scenarios, plenty more possibilities. But, like always, his mind always gravitates towards the worst.

 

“Steve,” he says, a little softer, like he’s unsure of his own name. “Are you alright? Is your dad there?”

 

—

 

“Steve,” Billy says, trying the sound out in his mouth, digging for something though he doesn’t know what. “Yes. How can I help you?”

 

That’s what they’d said on the radio, some woman had said it. She was asking someone that question and everyone sounded fine and happy. It must not sound quite right because he can see his father’s head turn way out in the living room, knows he’s looking right at him. Steve had asked a question too. 

 

“He is.”

 

—

 

Steve feels his body unclench, each muscle starting to relax until he’s lying back on the bed with the phone still pressed up against his ear. It’s a relief to know that Billy’s just being weird because his dad’s there, although it’s short lived when he starts to dwell on the reason Billy might’ve skipped work today.

 

“Are you hurt?” he says, voice still quiet in case Neil can hear through the phone. “Do you need me to come get you? Just say  _ yes  _ and I’ll be there, I can—I’ll help you.”

 

—

 

Billy abruptly feels sick, his stomach giving a hard lurch. Some kind of swift, punishing feeling that makes his hand smack against the wall, jaw clenching again. The tone of voice on the other end makes him flinch, as quiet as it is, as soft as it is. The tone of voice further down, the one inside, says  _ get rid of it _ . 

 

“No thanks, don’t need any,” he says, slamming the phone into the receiver. 

 

The moment he’s off the phone his father is telling him to help with dinner and he’s spitting  _ no _ , the house falling completely silent. He watches his mother move down the hall and invite his sister out for burgers, watches them walk out the front door like he had early in the morning, watches himself hit the floor. Whatever punishment this man feels like doling out to him doesn’t matter. 

 

He doesn’t even feel it. 

 

—

 

Steve spends a while staring at the phone in his hands. He’s half expecting it to ring, to hear Billy talking quiet and quick on the other line. There’s nothing. Just the silence of his room and the sound of the pool heater running outside. 

 

Part of him wants to drive over there, take a look in Billy’s window and find out for himself but something stops him. This could all just be a one time thing, some kind of sick joke Billy was playing on him. But that seems impossible—not with how real everything felt. Still, it keeps him glued to the bed instead of rushing out to his car.

 

Sleep doesn’t usually come easy but that night it’s even more elusive. He’s tossing and turning, can’t seem to stop his mind from wandering all over the place. He wakes up on a few hours sleep, rolls out of bed and wonders if Billy will show up to work today. They’re both on the early shift again, tasked with opening up and dealing with the lunchtime sugar rush.

 

He gets his answer a few hours later when Billy still hasn’t showed. He calls Robin, doesn’t tell her about what happened the night before and when she arrives she doesn’t make a shitty comment about it. Instead there’s something worried about her expression and the way she keeps looking at the door like he’s going to come through it.

 

“You think something happened to him?” she says, chin resting on her hands. “Like, something  _ bad _ ?”

 

“No,” he says quickly, nowhere near convincing. “I’m sure he’s just—”

 

There’s no rational explanation for where Billy is and he’s not going to tell Robin about how Billy sounded on the phone.

 

“He’s being an asshole Robin, just like you said.”

 

—

 

Billy doesn’t think he’s ever felt so sick, not in recent memory. The morning moves on autopilot again, the house quiet but in a different way now, the way it is after his father—after his father. He throws the uniform in the back and drives erratically to the quarry again, the sounds coming from it even louder now. He tries to drown them out, rifles through the trunk and gulps down a half gallon of whiskey in record time. It doesn’t work, just puts him on his knees, eyes glued to the water at the bottom for hours. 

 

He loses time then, how much he doesn’t know. He watches himself park haphazardly across two spots in the front of the Starcourt Mall, grabbing the uniform out of the back and dragging it inside with him. A strong urge fills him as he stumbles across the linoleum and concrete, hugging walls and tripping over himself. It’s so strong that it makes his entire body ache, makes him want to meet every single pair of eyes that pass him, makes him want to open his mouth to—

 

He’s laughing, laughing so hard his stomach hurts. It sounds wrong coming out of him, high and unhinged, fingers clumsy as he throws his uniform at the ice cream place bearing the same symbol on it. It doesn’t make it inside so he picks it up, falls twice, stands again to move further in. He throws it right through the doorway and keeps laughing, keeps laughing like he’s never going to stop. 

 

—

 

Steve’s first instincts are to back off. There’s something unnerving about that laugh, familiar and completely foreign at the same time. Like the way Billy had laughed last fall after Steve had punched him, only this is different, more intense. He’s backing up into the counter behind him before he even realises, the cold surface on the back of his legs bringing him back to the present.

 

“You weren’t fucking wrong,” Robin says, every ounce of annoyance coming back to her at once. “Fucking  _ asshole _ . We’ve all got problems Billy, but yours take the fucking cake.”

 

Steve doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes fixed on Billy. It’s hard to believe that the person in front of him is the same person who was spread out in the back of his car. Soft and sweet, all that cold exterior washed away. Now there’s nothing sweet about him at all. There’s a bruise on his eye that Steve imagines is from Neil, but the way he sounds right now—it could’ve been anyone.

 

“ _ Billy, _ ” he says finally, voice low and warning. “What are you doing?”

 

—

 

“ _ Quitting _ ,” Billy spits, teeth bared, something joyful blooming in him at the look on—Robin’s face, on  _ Steve’s _ . “I’m  _ quitting _ , I  _ quit. _ ”

 

He picks the uniform up one last time and chucks it over the counter at them, slipping during his swing and hitting the ground. He’s laughing so hard now that he has tears in his eyes, a hand coming up to dig into them. When the heel of his hand presses into his right eye he’s reminded of the nasty bruising there, the red break in the corner of his eye. It blinds him for a second before he’s pushing himself up, gasping for breath. 

 

That urge comes back again but it’s like there’s a hand holding his head down, then yanking it back while he laughs at the ceiling, the exposed beams there. The longer he stays the stronger it gets so his feet start to move, his shoulder slamming hard into the side of the doorway as he stumbles out, spine rattling with the force of it. 

 

—

 

“Is he serious?” Robin says incredulously, turning to Steve like she can’t believe what just happened. “I know he’s—whatever, he’s never been like  _ that  _ before.”

 

She clearly wants him to respond but he’s too preoccupied by watching Billy stumble out of the store. That’s when he kicks into action, like someone hit the play button and he’s finally coming out of his stupor.

 

“I gotta go,” he says, shoving off his dumb sailors hat and rushing out from behind the counter.

 

In the background he can hear Robin calling his name, swears he hears  _ asshole  _ too. It doesn’t matter, not in the face of something like this. He finds Billy barely out of the food court, grabbing the attention of families feasting on Big Macs and milkshakes. It’s hard not to pay attention to a drunk with a black eye.

Steve knows it’s only a matter of time before someone calls security and then it’s all over.

 

“Billy,” he says when he’s close behind, reaching out a hand and placing it on Billy’s shoulder. “Stop, please. Look at me.”

 

—

 

Billy swings around at the touch, his eyes landing on— _ Steve _ . That urge can’t be held down or trampled over now, the large palm resting on his shoulder or the lack of disgust on his face. His own crumples and it’s like wading through tar, like just his fingertips are poking out, just giving him a split second to come up for air. 

 

“ _ H—elp _ ,” he says, eyes wide and jaw tight, making it hard to get the words out. “ _ Steve, hel—p me. _ ”

 

Then he’s backing away from the touch like he’s been burnt, a whole food court of people staring at him. Mothers shielding their children’s eyes, fathers sneering at the sight of him. He looks down at himself and back up, though not in time to keep himself up, shoulder blades hitting the corner of a table with a grimace. 

 

—

 

Just a split second. That’s all it was. Billy’s eyes getting brighter before—

 

Steve watches him go down and immediately crouches to help him. He hadn’t imagined the words, Billy’s desperate plea for help. That had sounded real, more honest than anything else he’d said so far. He reaches out to touch, to put Billy’s pieces back together again.

 

“Take my hand,” he says, gentle and calm despite everything. “Please let me help you Billy. We need to get you to a doctor.”

 

—

 

Billy wants to, and then he couldn’t want anything less. He’s shuddering at the sight of who’s in front of him, his voice like a dog whistle. He grits his teeth and pushes himself back, scrambling and snarling until he’s upright. Then he lands a haymaker on Steve that has all the families gasping, his face split wide in a smile, laughter bubbling up again. 

 

He uses the sudden uproar and moves backwards, shoving people away and slipping out of grasping hands. It’s easy, now that he remembers how strong he is, how strong he can be. All of the things he could break apart. 

 

Just not yet. 

 

—

 

That’s familiar. Billy’s fist crashing into his face, the pain blossoming over his cheek, the blood he can taste in his mouth. A lot more familiar than making out in the back of his car or getting head in the dirt. This he knows—Billy’s manic rage, the way his knuckles break Steve’s skin.

 

When he comes to he’s on the floor and there’s a group of people surrounding him. It’s darker now and he’s certain that’s just his eyes getting adjusted but then he hears someone talking about the lights. There are gossiping voices everywhere, weighing him down like an anchor. And then there’s Robin, pushing through the crowd and dropping to her knees next to him.

 

“Steve! Steve! Holy shit,” she says, hands coming up to the pulse point on his neck. Absently he wonders whether he looks dead, if one punch by Billy is enough to take him down for good. “Steve, look at me. How many fingers am I holding up?”

 

It’s hard to focus at first but then three fingers get clearer and the stars fade a little. 

 

“Three,” he says, grimacing at the copper taste in his mouth. “I’m alright. I’m okay.”

 

He pushes himself up on his elbows and that was a mistake because his head is throbbing, like his brain is trying to fight it’s way out of his skull. All this from one hit. He thinks about what it felt like last year, thinks maybe Billy’s been working on his right hook because it doesn’t even compare.

 

“Gotta get up,” he groans, pushing himself up on shaking legs. Robin’s got a solid grip on his waist and won’t let go, not even when he tries to shove her off. “I’m alright Rob, I can walk.”

 

The crowd disperses slightly and Steve swears he can see Billy staring from across the food court, like he’s frozen in time. As soon as their eyes meet he’s gone, walking away quickly until he’s out of sight. Something smashes, or maybe it’s a lot of things at once, the sound of glass hitting the floor but Steve can’t work out where it’s coming from. Robin’s still holding him, practically dragging him back towards Scoops, muttering  _ what the fuck  _ under her breath.

 

—

 

Billy loses track of time, sees it fly past until seconds are hours and days are minutes. He breaks the news to his father and after that it’s his face being pushed into the carpet, words like  _ useless  _ and  _ homeless  _ punctuated by fists. They don’t seem to matter this time and he doesn’t know why, just knows without a doubt his father won’t be letting him leave, that the threats are empty. That this man is too afraid to let him out into the world, a fact that becomes more apparent each time they lock eyes. He’s seeing something he doesn’t want to and it scares him, a fact that makes Billy’s blood practically sing. 

 

_ Soon.  _

 

It’s the first thing he says to whatever is waiting at the bottom of the quarry, though his mouth never opens. More things need to fall into place first, more steps to be taken.  _ Alone  _ is the mantra his brain latches on to, has him using every ounce of energy he has to make it so. Food doesn’t taste like anything and water makes him sick, the heat of summer leaving him wearing his thinnest clothing, naked in his room as he feigns sleep. He doesn’t remember what sleep feels like. 

 

Someone calls, someone from school— _ it’s Tommy, man. You forget me already? _ —and his brain screams  _ alone _ , shrinks at the prospect of inquiring minds. There’s a party but he isn’t celebrating anything, not yet. He breaks the back door of  _ Melvald’s  _ as easy as breathing once the world is asleep, piling vials and bottles— _ hydromorphone, gamma hydroxybutyrate _ —into a grocery bag. Used for later. A real party. 

 

It’s easy to wait for backs to turn at the house— _ Tina, baby, you too cool for me now? _ —and crack the top of the keg, pour his findings into it, into the punch bowl in the kitchen. It’s easy to wait for everyone to start looking loose, even the girl he saw at his old job, the one who shrieked when he laid his first plans right into  _ Steve’s  _ face. Then he’s stalking the house, peering into people and hissing at them, making their faces fall, slack with confusion and chemicals. 

 

_ Alone _ . 

  
  


—

 

Steve gets the call just past one AM on Saturday night. It’s been three days since he got knocked out in the food court. Three days since he’s seen or heard from anyone except for Robin when he called in sick and his mom who won’t stop fussing.  _ Concussion _ . That’s what the doctors had said—the tinnitus would most likely be temporary and the headaches would fade within a week or two. As for the bruises, Steve wonders how many times he can keep getting hit before it never heals again.

 

He doesn’t blame Robin for blowing off some steam, especially after having to cover three full day shifts. He’s not expecting her slurred voice down the line though. She’s always had a pretty good handle on alcohol.

 

“ _ Steeeeve _ ,” she slurs, huffing down the line. There’s music in the background, the sounds of people partying. “Steve. I don’t feel well. Billy’s here, he’s  _ here _ . I don’t—”

 

The line cuts out and he’s left with a dial tone that’s almost soothing compared to the ringing in his ears. He tries to call back and it just rings out. There’s no way he can just lay here, especially not now he knows Billy’s there. He’s not in the mood to get his ass kicked again but judging by Robin’s voice something is wrong. Steve can’t stay put when something’s wrong anymore.

 

The house is quiet. It’s easy to slip out the front door and start his car even though he shouldn’t be driving at all. He’s fine—it’s just a headache and if his eyes a drooping then it doesn’t really matter. There’s nobody on the road anyway.

 

Pulling up outside Tina’s house feels like stepping into the Twilight Zone. There are people passed out on her lawn, people making out on her steps and vomit everywhere. It’s never been this wild before, not in the entire time he’s been partying at Tina’s.

 

Inside is even worse. There’s smashed glass under his feet next to crushed beer cans. Somebody spray painted  _ Fuck Hawkins  _ on her corridor wall next to a symbol Steve swears he saw on some TV special about satanism. It probably some assholes attempt at being rebellious but it sends a chill through him anyway. Tina’s always been a stickler for keeping her house relatively tidy despite all of the parties. She’d never let anyone spray paint on her parents walls.

 

Moving through the house is difficult. There are people everywhere in various states—some leaning against walls with their eyes rolling back, some slumped on the floor talking slowly. The music blocks out the ringing—loud, fast and mean, the kind of stuff Billy blasts in his car. Some people try to grab onto him, slur his name and make aborted attempts to grab his attention. He doesn’t care about anything except finding Robin, trying to catch a glimpse at Billy.

 

A few minutes later he finds them both. Robin’s sat on Tina’s parents trophy cabinet, her back against the glass. Her date for the night is next to her in an equally fucked up state. Neither of them seem to have much luck keeping their eyes open. It seems like Steve’s the only one doing a good job of that. When he finds Billy on the couch he wishes he wasn’t.

 

__

 

Tommy always was a fucking lemming. Billy knows he’s easy to mold, that Carol is nowhere to be seen, probably folded in on herself somewhere like the rest of the party. He’s the only one with his head on straight, though that sentence makes him laugh so hard he thinks he’s going to be sick. The feeling doesn’t go away, lingers in the back of his mind as he whispers to Tommy all the things he’s always wanted to hear, all the things that couldn’t be less true. 

 

_ Always had a crush on you.  _

 

_ Used to watch you in the showers.  _

 

_ Here’s your opening, baby _ . 

 

The couch under him is sickeningly expensive and so is the stupid windbreaker he’s gripping, using for leverage while the body on top of him tries to get to the friction between his legs. That sick feeling triples until he’s shuddering with it and then it’s gone, so violently snapped out of his mind it’s like it was never there at all. Replaced by the noises he’s faking, waiting for some kind of reaction from the outside world, something to really make these people hate him, leave him so he can—

 

“ _ Hi _ , Steve,” he coos, his voice mostly flat as he lazily turns his head, Tommy’s mouth occupying the space he’s created in his neck. “Come on baby, put your back into it. Don’t wanna get tossed out too, do you?”

 

—

 

Everything feels wrong. Like he’s back in the upside down and for a split second he thinks that maybe this has something to do with his concussion. Maybe none of this is real after all. But there’s no ash in the air, no twisted vines covering every surface. It’s all real but it’s wrong.

 

Tommy would never— not even if he wanted to. He’s got too much of a reputation and even if he  _ did  _ then he’d never be so blatant about it. It’s dangerous, the sort of shit that could get him killed if the wrong people saw. Regardless, there he is on the couch, grinding into Billy like he hasn’t had anything anywhere near as good in years. Steve should know, he had that too. For a split second Tommy stops chewing on Billy’s neck to make eye contact with him. His eyes are hooded and dark, filled with something Steve can’t place but then he’s looking away, grinning down at Billy and talking— _ fuck, so good baby _ .

 

“Mmhm. Better than a girl huh? Right  _ Stevie _ ?” Billy says and that snaps Steve out of it because his voice, it’s wrong too, just like everything else.

 

“What are you trying to prove?” he says. Even though everything feels off he can’t help the hurt that hits him right in the stomach, the path of jealousy too. “That you’re still a piece of shit? Point fucking  _ proven _ .”

 

—

 

Billy feels Tommy’s—what? hurt?—posture wilt, the way his hips stutter before he doesn’t seem to mind so much anymore. Dilaudid’s good for that. Just the same it has him shoving the other boy off with his eyes still on  _ Steve’s _ , on the look on his face. On how it’s not nearly as alienating as it should be. 

 

“Better a smart piece of shit than a  _ stupid  _ one,” he spits, staggering to his feet like it’s getting difficult to decide how to move. “What did you think, we were  _ boyfriends _ ? Are you that fucking slow?”

 

His face splits into a grin that feels like it’s pulling his face to shreds, that energy picking up again. The sound of a vase in another room breaking. 

 

“You  _ are _ , aren’t you? I almost feel bad for you, Stevie, you’re just soft in the head. You can’t help it,” he hisses, fingers digging into Steve’s shirt to tug him closer until they’re almost nose to nose, eyes to eyes. “Let me help you out,  _ sweetheart.  _ You’ve got a nice dick and you know how to use it, but your brain’s full of fucking cotton balls. No wonder your parents are never around, no wonder Wheeler ditched you. You’re  _ bullshit _ . A fucking  _ lackey _ , someone to play with until it gets  _ old _ . Do you understand now or should I write it? Would that even work?”

 

—

 

Steve remembers how Billy had looked in the backseat of his car. Blue eyes shining bright under the overhead lights. Maybe they were always that blue and he never noticed them before. Now his eyes are dark, almost black and Steve remembers that too--how they’d camouflaged Joyce Byers’ garage and how Will’s eyes had been just as dark as Billy’s are. It can’t be. Jane closed the gate. They’d know, she’d know.

 

It has to be the alcohol and whatever drugs Billy took that night, making him extra aggressive, turning his eyes into saucers. Whatever Billy is on has to be some heavy shit because his face is all twisted up and his skin is sheet white, all traces of a tan lost to the dust he snorted up his nose or injected in his veins. He’s got a firm grip on Steve and he absently wonders whether he should prepare for another punch, maybe this time he can be ready for it.

 

The words stab at the part of him he tries to keep buried--the voice in his head that tells him that people leave and some people never get any luck in relationships. He wasn’t expecting to hear them from Billy, not after that night but he’s not sure why he’s surprised. Once bullshit, always bullshit. No use hoping for anything different.

 

“Let go of me,” he says, voice coming out weaker than he’d hoped. He tries to move out of Billy’s grip but to no avail, he’s far too strong. Even without his power, the number marked on his wrist. “Get your fucking hands off of me.”

 

—

 

Billy sees the look on Steve’s face and something primal settles inside of him at the sight of it. The way the light leaves Steve’s eyes, the hurt settling over it. Like someone dumped a bucket of ice right over his head, sick and cold and surprised. It’s enough for him to let go, wrench himself out of Steve’s sight and move toward the kitchen to check on his progress. 

 

People are lying haphazardly throughout the house, some just swaying while others throw up, some mumbling to themselves as they try to move. When he reaches the kitchen the punch bowl is nearly empty, only enough for a few more gulps. The urge to down it is so strong it divides him in two, his fingers in a death grip on the counter as he shudders, fear choking him. 

 

_ Stop. Stop. Steve. Stop.  _

 

—

 

Nobody says a word. Not one person seems to have even noticed their altercation or the fact that Billy and Tommy were--

 

Steve shakes the image from his head, focuses on Robin for a moment because that’s why he’s here. Her head is resting on the glass of the cabinet and her eyes are barely open. She doesn’t seem to recognise him, just a vacant glance in his direction before she looks away--bored.

  
“Rob. Robin. It’s me,” he says, holding her head in his hands.

 

“Who’s  _ me _ ?” she asks, laughing softly to herself like she just cracked the best one-liner of all time.

 

They’re all far too gone. Every single person in the room in some state of disrepair. Tommy’s collapsed on the couch now, drooling into the fabric. Steve doesn’t give a shit about Tommy but he’s not about to leave them all like this. The only person in any state to move is Billy and he’s the only person who can give Steve answers, tell him what happened.

 

In the kitchen he finds Billy hunched over the counter, his body shaking like something is about to break out of him any minute. Steve approaches cautiously, doesn’t want to get too close, doesn’t want to talk to Billy at all after what just happened but right now this is all he’s got.

  
“What happened here?” he says from the doorway, keeping a good distance between them, his voice all business. “Did you do this? What happened to everyone? What happened to--”

 

_ You. _

 

\--

 

Billy remembers crawling through his window and into nothing but black, no distance or depth. He remembers his own voice sounding tinny in his ears, Steve’s name getting no answer.  _ Alone  _ is the only thing that does, the shadow in the sky ripping into him, pouring itself into every vein. Staring into the abyss of the quarry while things wake up right underneath it. 

 

He turns around, his body still spasming, hands grasping at Steve and then at whatever he can reach. The punch bowl falls to the ground with a shatter, things on the kitchen island slipping off the side as he scrambles for purchase. The act of looking at Steve is agonizing, gasping for breath, the sound of the sliding glass door shattering. 

 

“ _ Help, h-elp me _ ,” he sobs, his face instantly morphing into something like horror, eyes welling up as the lightbulbs in the living room explode. “ _ It—c-ame for me, it’s  _ **_in me._ ** _ Please,  _ **_please_ ** .  _ St-eve _ .”

 

—

 

Before everything happened, Steve always believed in fight or flight. A split second subconscious reaction—you either stay or you run. Now he knows it’s a choice, that you can push against your flight instinct and stick out the fight. Every single part of him wants to run but he stays there in front of Billy, in front of whatever  _ it  _ is. Because he cares, because he gives a shit about Billy despite his best efforts not to.

 

The room is getting darker, bulbs smashing everywhere but he can see Billy’s eyes. Black, blue, black. He doesn’t run. Instead he grabs hold of Billy, brings him close like maybe he can stop whatever it is just by holding him. Billy’s sobbing into his chest, clinging to his shirt. There’s music coming from the living room still. Someone he doesn’t recognise is throwing up in Tina’s sink. The sound of smashing glass is everywhere.

 

“What is it?” he asks frantically, trying to keep a grip on Billy. “ _ Billy _ . You have to tell me what it is.”

 

—

 

“ _ Big— _ **_big death_ ** ,” Billy wails, hands shaking against Steve’s jacket. The touch is so perfect, a hand pulling him out of the tar pit. It won’t last long, he can feel it. “ _ Killing everyone, opening it back up.  _ **_Please help me_ ** .”

 

He doesn’t get the chance to say anything else, a scream ripped out of him that makes his voice hoarse after a few seconds. His body bows forward and his fingers become mean and pointed, ripping at Steve’s jacket before he throws himself backwards into the kitchen counter. He’s slipping back down and he’ll die in that pit, screams in pain, screams Steve’s name and hears it bounce off of something this time. 

 

Then every light in the house shatters, every window, every glass. The kitchen is shrouded in darkness and he’s gone again. 

 

_ Alone _ . 

 

—

 

Steve can just about make out the shapes of people in the dark, people stumbling and heaving around the room. He can’t make Billy out anywhere. Panic rises inside him as he tries to decipher what just happened— _ big death, help me _ , the sound of his name being screamed in Tina’s kitchen. There’s no way, it’s impossible. They closed the gate last year. It’s over.

 

But Billy’s eyes, his voice, Tina’s house full of teenagers on the verge of a drug overdose—they all say otherwise.  _ Killing everyone _ . That gets him moving, trying to find a phone in the dark, deafening house. It takes a while but eventually he finds it, hanging off the hook next to a girl who’s vomiting on the carpet. He can’t call Robin, can’t remember Hopper’s number, doesn’t want to call the police because they won’t understand. His fingers move of their own volition and he shakes whilst he’s waiting for an answer.

 

“Hello?” Nancy answers groggily.

 

“Nance? It’s Steve, I—”

 

“Steve, it’s —two thirty in the morning. What the  _ hell _ ?”

 

“I know I...Nance I need you to call Hopper and I need you to tell him to come to Tina’s house on Menefee Street. I can’t explain. It’s bad, it’s real bad and I can’t call anyone else. I need someone who understands. Are you listening to me Nance?”

 

There’s silence on the other end of the phone and another voice in the background he recognises as Jonathan.

 

“Yeah, I’m listening,” she says, quieter now, on edge. “Are you—is it back? Is it happening again?”

 

“I don’t know,” Steve says after a minute, leaning against the wall and trying to fight every instinct he has to leave right now. “I need Hop here now. Just call him.”

 

“I will. I’ll call him now,” she says and Steve can hear Jonathan ask what’s going on along with the sound of Nancy getting out of bed. “Steve?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid,” she says and for a split second he thinks that it’s nice to know that she still cares about him.

 

“I won’t. Just get him here now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Emily and I have written around 500,000 words altogether in the past year with each other. Here's the first thing we've decided to publish, hope you enjoy!


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